Life After Love Lost
by indycolt
Summary: After Rory rejected Logan's proposal, both went on with their lives separately...at least they tried. Can they overcome the distance, both physical and emotional, between them? Or will the return of a man from Rory's past keep them apart?
1. Rain, Rain Go Away

**Disclaimer: I don't own any Gilmore Girls characters yadda yadda yadda**

_**San Francisco**_

The bar was only slightly busy. Well, what did he expect on a Wednesday night? That was okay. One doesn't need a crowded bar to get drunk in. A nearly empty bar would do just fine.

As he sat at a bar stool the bartender was already setting down a glass of scotch for him. He'd been living here for a month, and most of the bartenders in the vicinity already knew him as a regular.

The fact that he was at a bar almost every night should have bothered him.

It didn't.

He knew he wasn't an alcoholic. He wasn't drinking because he liked to or because he felt that he needed to. He could stop if he wanted to. He just didn't want to. He was drinking to keep her image from invading his mind. He was drinking to forget Rory Gilmore.

Logan Huntzberger settled into his seat and wondered at just how much things in his life had changed—had completely fallen apart. Without Rory, Logan felt as if all he did was try to forget that he was without Rory. Alcohol and easy girls would only fill the void for so long.

He waved for a second scotch and silently ordered himself not to stick his hand in his pocket and retrieve the paper stored there. It would only bring him pain. But his hand seemed to be connected to his heart, and his heart seemed to love suffering. Logan pulled out the folded sheet and laid it on the counter. It was a short article dated back a month and a half. It was the last article penned by Rory that he had yet to read. His last link to her. And he knew that as soon as he read the damn thing, it wouldn't hold nearly as much importance. He had tracked down all of her journalistic endeavors that he hadn't read yet, and when he had a stack of them, there was always something to look forward to. This was his last one. His last part of Rory that seemed alive, that still had hope.

He had plenty of reminders of Rory, ones he often wished he could dispose of. But he couldn't bring himself to erase her from his life. So he kept the pillow that smelled ever so faintly of her. He kept the dress she had left behind when she moved—it was the one from her first Life and Death Brigade experience; he had bought it for her. He kept the old copy of _The Old Man and the _Sea they had taken turns reading over and over again. He kept the picture of the two of them on their first anniversary—it had been an amazing feat for him, and they'd celebrated alone together at their favorite old Italian restaurant.

He stared at the article, trying to tell himself he wouldn't be reading it. He sure as hell didn't _want_ to read it.

And yet he craved to take in her eloquent, stylistic writing that made it seem as if she were right there next to him. He craved it almost as much as he craved her presence.

He gave in. His eyes quickly scanned the short piece; God, it was short. As he read he could almost see her typing it, as she used to do on their bed back in the old apartment. Her eyes were focused, deep in concentration. Her hands of ivory silk were moving deftly across the keys. Her hair was messy, not combed after sleep—inspiration often struck her early in the morning—she didn't notice it. Her face held the smirk she unwittingly got when she knew her writing was great.

And it was great.

It was witty, cohesive, and sophisticated. It was fresh. He'd hire her in a second to work at his paper. And that was coming from the vice-president of one of the most successful newspaper companies in the world, not just from the man who was desperately longing for her.

Every paper must be going mad for her back home. Funny how he still considered home to be the East Coast. He contemplated the idea of San Francisco being his permanent residence and shuddered slightly. He wasn't the California type. He didn't like the idea of being thousands of miles away from his favorite sledding spot, the old dog left at his parents' house in Connecticut, his best friends, and…her. Logan had checked every paper he could get his hands on for something of Rory's, but he'd had no luck. Maybe she was still pitting them against each other so she could get the best deal. That had to be it. A writer like this couldn't be unemployed.

Logan ordered his third scotch of the night. He was just getting started. It would take a lot more than this to remove her scent, her laugh, her face, and everything else about her from his thoughts.

He was half way through his fifth scotch and starting lose some of his moroseness when Logan felt eyes on him. He glanced around, hoping it wasn't another gossip reporter. He was a businessman, not a celebrity.

The red head in the corner was eyeing him. She had a great face and a great body. She was wearing a tight dress that exposed her in all the right places. This little number would get any man chomping at the bit. Logan sighed.

He'd probably go home with her.

His good looks and natural charisma got him anyone he wanted without hesitation. Even if he'd been a repulsively ugly guy who couldn't put a sentence together all he would have to do was wear a name tag, and the ladies would flock to him. Most young socialites had known who he was on sight even before he'd been featured in all the tabloids. Apparently there weren't too many young, handsome, single millionaires around. He was a rung on the social ladder. Before, he had used that to his advantage whenever possible. Before Rory. He guessed he was doing that again now.

God, he made himself sick.

He glanced at the red head again. Yep, she'd give any man an instant boner. He took another swig of scotch. Logan knew this one wouldn't be any different than all the others. She'd come over with some excuse to chat. He'd let her flirt with him, waiting patiently until she proposed they go back to his place. He rarely had to do the proposing in these types of situations any more.

The word he'd merely thought stung him. Propose. _Propose._ It had once seemed such an exhilarating, wonderful word. Now it was tainted with a myriad of emotions, all of them negative.

The leggy red head tapped him lightly on the shoulder. So she'd snuck up on him.

_Here it goes again._

He knew he'd get her into bed in an hour or less. He knew he'd be trying so hard not to think of Rory the whole time that she'd be all he could think about. He knew because it was always the same.

Right after the sex, Logan was always in his own personal hell. He believed this was when the break-up most affected him. It was then that everything hit him head on and hiding was impossible. He couldn't escape the knowledge that he was going through women faster that he ever had before knowing Rory, just to get her off his mind. He would let the new girl stay in the bed for a few minutes then explain he had business early the next morning and that she had to get out. He never let the girl stay the night. He could barely keep himself from jumping up off the bed the second the deed was done. It killed him that the woman next to him wasn't his Ace. It _killed_ him. The guilt would hit his stomach, and he could feel the pain in his very soul.

His attempts to move on always backfired.

Always.

And yet, he seemed to forget that every night she was on his brain. Which was every night he wasn't consumed with work. Those nights were the ones he would unhook his phones to keep himself from calling Rory's cell. He didn't want to be the desperate ex-boyfriend. He still had a few shreds of pride. Sitting on his hands like that he'd get restless and head straight for the bars. There he'd pick up some…some _cunt_ (that was a word that hadn't even crossed his mind in the years he'd been with Rory—oh God, _years_) to satisfy him.

But he was never satisfied.

He finished his scotch in a gulp that burned his throat and turned to face the red head, plastering a slightly grimacing smile across his face.

_**A Bus Somewhere in the US**_

Rory Gilmore looked out the window at the gray skies and slow drizzle with a slight pout on her pretty face. It had been raining for hours. She closed her eyes. _Rain, rain go away. Come again another day._ She peeked out the window. Rats. It hadn't worked the last four times, and it hadn't worked this time.

She stifled a yawn. This bus travel thing was starting to get monotonous. At least there would be a little excitement later that day. Soon they'd be making a stop to pick up a few reporters from the southern states. She would no longer be the newbie. Rory hoped they wouldn't all be the old, grizzled type like most of the rest of her colleagues. There were only a couple of reporters her age following Obama. Greg Curtis, a stuffy bore, was twenty-six and spent most of his time reading and/or quoting the Bible. Tina Matthews, twenty-three—Rory's age, was fiercely competitive. She always thought Rory was trying to one up or sabotage her. Tina reminded her of early-Chilton Paris Gellar quite a bit. At least Paris had eventually gotten better. Well, slightly better.

Rory had actually just gotten off the phone with her old roommate. She was settling in at Harvard Med School nicely with Doyle by her side. Paris had rattled on about how many of their old Yale friends were doing, emphasizing her triumph over their sorry situations. Rory had barely said a word, the usual in any conversation with this…intense…young lady.

"Grace got rejected to every grad school she applied to. Now she's going into massage therapy. Great way to use that Yale education, huh? Idiot. Sarah's in law school. Can you believe it? That timid little push-over trying to put an axe-murderer behind bars? Tough luck for—well for the general public, that's who. If you're going to commit a murder, make sure Sarah's the prosecutor of your trial. You'll be back on the streets and killing people in no time. Jimmy got hired by the _Littleton Post_ in Oregon. What a dead end gig that'll be. What a sap. He used the thesaurus more than anyone on the Daily News. On the complete other end of the spectrum, guess who's now the VP of the 'Mightiest Press Empire of Our Time.' Loga—"

Paris had abruptly stopped speaking at that point. That little slip was enough to send pain shooting through Rory's entire body. She'd heard tidbits about Logan Huntzberger and his success, and each of those tidbits had sent her into despair. Thinking about Logan only brought her grief. The fact that he was such a public figure these days only made things harder.

"Sorry, forgot who I was talking to," Paris continued.

Rory had told her it was fine. She was fine. Everything was fine.

It had been a lie.

She was the opposite of fine.

If only she hadn't balked. She began to lament over it for the thousandth time. Logan Huntzberger, the man she loved, had offered her everything. He had shown just how much he'd changed from the playboy he'd once been. He'd tried to prove to her that he wanted to be with her forever. But the idea of marriage scared her. In her mind, it was like a prison. And, in all honesty, she blamed her mother for that. Her blue eyes weren't the only things Rory had inherited from Lorelai. The fear of such a committed relationship was also passed on. At first she had blamed the entire demise of her happiness on her mom, but she knew that was unfair. Rory had to be responsible for her own decisions, however foolhardy.

She missed Logan every day. His smile. His humor. His touch. What really got to her was the fact that _she_ had ended things. She had brought the constant ache of his absence upon herself. And at this very moment she wished more than anything that she could have a re-do. Why couldn't the world be like Clue—her mother had always let her make her guess of the murderer, weapon, and location at least three times if she wasn't exactly right.

Part of her believed that if she called him now he would take her back willingly. And part of her thought he must have moved on by now. Paris had said he was the new VP of his father's company. That was huge. She knew it wasn't nepotism—Logan had earned that spot with the success of his internet company. Her pride and lack of courage both stood in the way of her contacting Logan.

Rory closed her eyes and saw him in one of those moments when his friends weren't around and they were completely alone together. When it was just the two of them, his face lost that oh-so-confident, slightly haughty air about it, and he became the full-hearted, intelligent, sweet man that she knew and loved more than anything. He didn't feel the pressure to be someone else with her, and that knowledge made her feel extremely special.

Rory recalled the party she had thrown over a year ago for her boyfriend on the eve of his departure for London. It was as if she were living it again. The last of his friends filed out of their apartment. Relief seemed to flood his face, and his arms were immediately around her waist, pulling her to him.

"'Ay gov'nuh, 'ands off the merchandise," she trilled in her horrible English accent.

"Rory, I think I'll have enough England while I'm actually _in_ England. Now I just want you."

"Little old me?" she asked, now flaunting her expert Southern accent.

Logan groaned.

"Fine, be a spoil sport." Rory removed the hat and wig of her costume, letting her shiny brown hair fall free.

"That's the ugly American I know and love."

"Insulting me in my own home. I wish you'd just get out of here—go to England or something," she joked.

"I'll do my best." He kissed her lightly. He brought his lips up to her temple and began to whisper. "What'll I do without you, Ace? I can't be myself when you're not with me. I'm going to lose myself when I'm a whole country away. Promise me I won't lose you."

She held out her pinky; he laughed, took it in his, and the deal was made.

"Logan…I love you…"

He picked her up, heading toward their bed.

"Right back at ya, Ace."

The words echoed in her head, making her feel renewed guilt and despair. His confession of needing her to be himself had touched her. He had whispered the words with such genuine passion… his sincerity was tangible. She felt his breath on her forehead as he whispered those words. His face rubbing against her own. His lips on her skin. His hands on her back working their way down to her—she opened her eyes.

No.

She couldn't do this to herself again. She'd only miss him more.

Rory wiped at the tears that had mysteriously sprung into her eyes. She ignored the emotions that threatened to overwhelm her, knowing these feelings weren't being erased but stored somewhere deep inside. Someday she would have to cope with them. She imagined that when that day came and the heartache hit her full force, she wouldn't be able to function.

She closed her eyes again and leaned against the window. She let her thoughts glide over other, less distressing things. What she would buy and send to Stars Hollow for her mother—Lorelai had a birthday coming up. When she would call Lane next. What her next article—the one she would write for her own pleasure, not for publication—would cover. Whether or not this miserable rain would ever let up.

Slowly she began to drift off to sleep.

_Rory was being spun around in little circles as music that was popular years ago played almost deafeningly. There were young couples dancing closely all around her. The place was packed, and she felt herself sweating. It was hard to move; Rory looked down. She was wearing a beautiful, floor-length blue gown (made by her mother) that matched her eyes and the streamers covering the Stars Hollow High Gym_

_It hit her then. She was at prom. This was the senior prom she'd never gotten to go to. Why? Why hadn't she attended…?_

_There were Lane and Dave, finally together. There were Dean and Lindsay, unmarried and happy._

_She realized that the hands spinning her round and round must belong to one man, and one man alone. She couldn't get a good look at him—he was spinning her too fast._

_She managed to catch a glimpse of dark hair slicked back. She was right; she had to be. The spinning continued for a seemingly unending amount of time, and Rory began to feel sick. She needed to not be spinning anymore. She needed to be standing still and stable._

_The music switched to a slow song, and the spinning stopped. Rory faced her dance partner, still feeling dizzy. _

_There he was. _

_Jess Mariano. _

_The reason she had missed prom. She looked him over. He was dressed as a T-Bird from _Grease._ He even had a cigarette behind his ear. It seemed perfectly natural. Rory stared at him a while then reached out and rubbed his leather jacket between two of her fingers, raising an eyebrow at him. He rolled his eyes at her._

"_We gonna dance or what?" he mumbled._

_She nodded. He put his arms around her and they swayed slowly. She'd forgotten how tender he could sometimes be. She closed her eyes, letting herself get lost in this moment._

"_Rory."_

"_Hmmm?"_

"_Rory, promise me you won't forget this," he whispered in her ear._

_She laughed at him. How could she possibly forget her own prom? It was a silly request._

_He brought his lips to her forehead, an intense look still on his face._

"_Don't laugh. Just remember."_

_Rory was confused. His voice was filled with urgency. _

"_I miss you."_

_It was she that made this statement to him. And it was true._

_Their eyes met. He leaned in to bring his lips to hers._

Meanwhile, the bus came to a stop, and the six new reporters climbed onto the bus, travel bags and lap tops in tow. One was over fifty, three were in their forties, and one was about thirty. The remaining reporter was twenty-three years old. This single young writer stopped short as he walked down the aisle, causing the woman behind him grumble under her breath.

There, in the last row, was a sleeping brunette he'd known once.

Back in high school. Before he'd fucked everything up. Before he'd left. Before he'd had to leave.

Rory Gilmore.

He swore under his breath. He could barely believe it was her. He could barely believe he might be getting another chance. He blinked, and she was still there. He rubbed his hand across his eyes. She hadn't disappeared.

He repositioned his bag's strap so it wasn't pulling so much on his leather jacket and made his way to her seat. The woman behind muttered something about arrogant young assholes.

_Jess kissed her, his tongue massaging her lips. The couple was suddenly in the gazebo in town square. Rory looked around, amazed. Jess brought a hand up to caress her face and opened his mouth to say something. She couldn't hear him. She strained her ears, trying to make out his unspoken words._

_She felt herself being shaken._

_Shaken?_

_Jess was fading and Rory was aware of her head pressed against a cold, slightly damp window pane._

Rory opened her eyes with difficulty, noting that the rain had finally subsided. She stiffened. Someone was sitting next to her. In the act of sitting down he had accidentally jostled her awake. She looked over, prepared to chew this person out for not sitting in another seat or, at least, for not sitting in hers a little more gracefully.

She stopped short, her mouth still open. Her eyes filled with recognition, and a gasp caught in her throat. She hadn't seen the man before her in _years_.

"Wh—What are you doing here?" she stammered.

He smirked a little and cocked his head. "You weren't expecting me? You don't think I should be here?"

"No," she stated bluntly

"Nice to see you, too. _Mary._"

**AN: So who would've thought it was Tristan getting on the bus? Anyone? Anyone? Haha, that was my attempt at shiftiness. So this is set about a month after Rory's graduation. I'm going to try to keep it as true to where the series left things as possible. I don't really understand exactly how the Obama press tour would work in reality and I don't want to research it, so in the future, I'll be doing some guessing…that is, if there is a future to this thing. This was my first fic…I hope it wasn't too terrible.**


	2. Rebound Guy, Eh?

**AN: Okay so I was sort of hoping for a little more of a response, but hey the five reviews I did get were very much appreciated. Okay, here goes nothing:**

_**San Francisco**_

Logan stared at the ceiling as his alarm continued to go off at an aggravating decibel. He glanced at the cursed device.

5:00 AM. His usual for a weekday morning. He was up at 4:00 on Sundays. Not so easy when the night before usually consisted of a large but indeterminate amount of scotch.

He hit the snooze button. He only had nine minutes before his day had to begin in earnest.

Instead of trying to get back to sleep as he would normally have, Logan continued to stare straight up, thinking, for some reason, about the day he'd decided he would propose to Rory…

He had been miserable. His company had failed, and he was still scrambling to get his head above water. He'd made calls for hours trying to get wind of a good business deal. There had been a couple of tentative leads, but nothing with really promising prospects.

Later, Colin and Finn had shown up, coming out of nowhere to accuse him of becoming a different person. When was the last time he'd gone out for a good time with them? He was becoming just like Mitchum. Logan had explained—or tried to at least—about his new responsibilities and all the expectations hitched on him, but his best friends hadn't wanted to hear it. They'd left with all three of them still angry.

When he'd gone to pick up his dry cleaning he'd found that the building which was once his cleaners was now a Chinese restaurant. He'd gone inside to speak to the hostess (numerous gestures and a very loud slow speaking voice had been used) and inquired after the former tenants and his clothing. He'd been told not to hold his breath. The Whites of White Wash had skipped town.

Someone had backed into his Jag while he was speaking to the hostess, and not so much as a courtesy note had been left behind. The giant dent in the front had been enough to make him wince.

He'd bitten his tongue.

He'd tripped over a brick, mysteriously lying in the middle of the sidewalk. Falling flat on his face in front of a group of businessmen did wonders for his temper.

He'd been pulled over by a policeman and issued a ticket for speeding.

He'd gotten a hangnail.

And, to top it all off, his father had called to berate him for pissing around over his idiotic business failure when he should have been working at the paper. Logan had defended himself to the best of his abilities and felt a pounding headache beginning to form. Arguing with Mitchum always left him weary and in a sour mood.

After what seemed like the longest day of his life, Logan had entered the apartment, thrown his keys on the counter, and sworn loudly as he overshot and they slid onto the floor.

The throbbing in his head was enough to make him want to down a bottle of Advil. He'd taken three instead. Then he'd crumpled onto the couch, rubbing his temples.

It was at that point that Rory had come out of the bedroom, dressed to the nines. She'd looked gorgeous in that elegant, floor-length silver dress. Her hair was curled and set gracefully to frame her face.

"You don't look ready for the Writers' Ball," she'd chided, teasing in her voice. His mood hadn't yet registered with her.

"Shit. Rory, I completely forgot. I'll go change."

She'd sensed the strain in his voice and the fatigue in his eyes.

"Logan…what is it?"

"Nothing, nothing." His voice had come out more harshly than he'd planned. "Why? I'm not moving fast enough for you?" He'd tried to amend his folly with a joking tone. It had fallen flat.

"Stay where you are. Sit. Sit. I need the bedroom back. I'm going to switch dresses. You can change when I'm done."

"But you look fantastic. Don't change."

"Hey, I'm female, and change out clothes is what we females do. I've got this pretty little blue number in mind, anyway"

"Okay…can't we change at the same time?"

"No, sir. That takes all the shock factor out of it. My self-esteem needs that thing your face does when I come into the room all dolled up."

"Fine, fine. But hurry, we're already late."

"Two shakes of a lamb's tail! Three at most…"

After the door had closed behind her he'd put his head in his hands.

"Fuck!"

He didn't want to spend his night at some banquet for the Yale Daily News's senior staff writers. He wanted to stay in and go to sleep. But this was so important to Rory. It had been important to him when he'd been a senior—and he hadn't even cared about the paper. It was a formal event with a multiple-course meal, entertainment, an awards ceremony, all that great shit.

Any other night he'd be happy to go and support his Ace.

But tonight? After his nightmare of a day?

He'd sighed and ordered himself to think of Rory. He would do it for her. He just hoped his bad mood wouldn't ruin her evening, too. He would put on a happy face for now.

He heard the door open and got to his feet. Shock spread over his face.

"That's not quite the look my ego was hoping for."

"Ace…"

"Logan…"

"You can't wear that to the Writers' Ball."

She was clad in plaid pajama pants and one of his blue Yale t-shirts.

"Hey, who needs fanciness when the pleasure of domesticity—a night spent with one's boyfriend—is up for grabs?"

"Rory, no. Let's go to the ball."

"Something's obviously bothering you. You don't have to tell me what it is. Doesn't matter. I'm not dragging you out somewhere you don't want to be. You need to stay home. And I need to be where you are."

"But—"

"Logan, I've made my decision. If you think I'm changing clothes again, you're sadly mistaken. Now go get some sweats on, and come out and watch some movies with me."

He'd been reluctant to do so. She'd been looking forward to tonight for ages. But watching movies in his sweats with Rory at his side sounded like heaven. After his shitty day, he needed something like that to wind down.

Logan had changed and came back out to the couch. Rory had put on _The Sandlot_.

"A sports movie?" He'd been surprised.

"A children's nostalgia classic," she'd corrected. "You can't be in a bad mood while watching this movie. That's a proven fact. If anything's going to ameliorate all that tension you're feeling, it's this."

She'd snuggled up to his arm, looking perfectly content to be there. Logan had looked down at her, amazed that he could be so lucky.

"Eyes on the movie, Bub."

He looked straight ahead, still wondering at her incredible abilities. She'd been able to read him immediately and had known exactly what to do. And she'd seemed to be happy about it. Happy just to be there with him. The memory of his day had melted away as the movie had continued and Rory had given her little commentary—he'd been unable to remember the last time he'd enjoyed a movie without the customary little remarks she always made.

The movie had ended, and the couple had remained on the couch, sitting silently and nestled close. Logan had buried his face in her hair and listened to her breathe. The calm he felt was so soothing. God, he wanted this to go on forever.

Why couldn't this go on forever?

It could. It really could.

Rory was perfect for him. He loved her. He had never loved anyone before. But he _loved_ Rory. With every part of himself. He wanted—no he _needed_—her to agree to marry him. It was all he could do not to blurt out a proposal right there on the couch.

In retrospect, that probably would have been a better tack.

But he'd wanted to ask her in a way she'd remember. And he'd wanted Lorelai's permission. Rory would have to know her mom was okay with the two of them being married. _Married._ The word that had used to be a meaningless term standing for a financial deal now made a smile come to his face there on that couch. He'd been almost giddy.

Rory Huntzberger.

The idea of it had made his heart beat faster. Logan had hugged her closer on the couch, and she had beamed up at him. He'd been almost sure she'd known what he was thinking and had given her silent consent with that beautiful little smile.

The alarm went off for a second time that morning. He slammed his fist on the clock.

Damn it had been a long time since he'd seen Rory's smile…

He pulled himself out of bed and gauged that his hangover wasn't so bad. No, not bad at all. Point one for Logan. He smiled to himself—maybe today things would turn around and everything would be great. He knocked on the thick of wood of his bed post even though he hadn't spoken the words out loud. Couldn't be too careful.

Logan read his newspaper over his breakfast. Not _his_ paper—that wasn't delivered to his home. In the mornings he read _The San Fran Chronicle—_he had to check out the competition. He knew too many of the problems behind each article in his own paper to read it any other place than work, anyway. He perused the first few pages, sipping his tea.

It had taken a while to get used to tea. Logan didn't drink coffee anymore. There wasn't a trace of it in his apartment. The substance had too many memories tied to it. Just the smell of it brought Rory's essence to him. She'd always smelled of vanilla and coffee—mainly coffee. He even had trouble walking by Starbucks—a big problem when there was one on every corner.

He turned to page four. There, right in the middle was a half-page picture of him and the redhead from last night.

How had they gotten it on there so fast?—was all he could wonder.

The line above the picture was _Love for New VP and Burgeoning Starlet?_ He read the caption. _Logan Huntzberger and Deena Tillman make their way to Huntzberger's penthouse apartment. The two were spotted fondling each other all over the streets of San Francisco._ Logan rolled his eyes. He hadn't touched her till they'd hit the bed. And they'd only walked from the bar to his building—a block and a half. He didn't bother reading the short article that went along with the piece of shit.

He looked at her last name again, trying to figure out which burgeoning starlet she was. Tillman? Ah, so she was the girl from the latest Tarantino film. _Sudden Motion_…or something like that. Logan didn't get out to the movies any more.

The whole picture/article didn't spark his interest too much. Nothing really seemed to these days. Even if the reporting had been accurate, it wasn't news that would hold any value. Not coming from this thing. His newspaper had way more integrity.

He'd begun to turn his attention back to the rest of the paper when he stopped short.

Wait. What—what if Rory were to read this?

She'd think…what would she think? That he was back to his old ways? That was true—in a way. His old ways didn't feature him harboring feelings for a certain blue-eyed brunette. There had been a lot less guilt involved, too. Would she think he didn't care about her? It was only a month after the break-up. He cursed at himself. He cursed at the sleazy paper who'd published the half-page picture. He tossed his spoon roughly back into the bowl of cheerios sitting on the table, causing milk to splash out of the bowl and onto his lap.

Logan took a deep breath. There was nothing he could do about the article now. He assured himself that Rory, in Connecticut, wouldn't see this piece of news from San Francisco. Even if the story got picked up and spread around the tabloid scene a little—Rory didn't read that kind of crap. She was interested in real, hard-hitting news. Logan felt much better about the whole situation—he ignored the uneasiness that still hovered in the back of his mind.

Logan was dressed and about to head out the door when his phone began to shrill loudly. He jumped, sure it would be Rory calling to ask how he could do such terrible things to her. He told himself not to be an idiot. It was probably just his father calling to scold him for acting like a child. Fantastic. He picked up the phone.

"Hello?"

"Congratulations, man! Really, you're living the American dream—well, my American dream anyway!"

Logan let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding at the sound of an Australian accent.

"But you aren't American."

"Neither was Schwarzenegger, and he's _your_ governor Mr. Hot Shot VP. So let's get back to this girl!"

"Finn—"

"Deena Tillman! She's one sexy lady Logan, and a redhead at that. You know I love the redheads."

"Yes, I've heard something to that effect."

"So how was she?"

"Finn!"

"Oh come on—you used to give me the raunchy details all the time. Before you became that one-woman-man, anyway. Well now the old bachelor-you is back. So give it up! How long before she gave it up?"

"Finn, I'm going to work."

"At least give me her number so I can give her a ring?"

"Are you in San Francisco?"

"No mate, I'm in Laos. But I might be in San Francisco someday."

Logan hung up the phone, smiling at his friend's attitude in spite of himself.

It felt damn good to smile.

_**The Tour Bus**_

She struggled to regain her composure.

"H—how—?"

"How did I get past the guy at the front with the checklist? Well, Mary, I happen to be on that list—right at the top. I'm a reporter these days."

"But you were going to be a lawyer. Even at Chilton you were preparing for it."

"Well, I'm touched that you remembered," he said with a smirk.

"So?" she questioned, staring at him with those sparkling blue eyes of hers. He'd thought about those eyes over the years…and other parts of her, too.

"So what?"

"So why aren't you a lawyer? How did you get assigned here? What's happened since you went to military school?"

"Well aren't you the inquisitive type?"

"I'm a reporter. What do you expect? Now tell me everything, Tristan Dugrey. Start at the beginning."

"I was born a poor black child. I remember the days, sittin' on the porch with my family, singin' and dancin' down in Mississippi," he recited.

"Don't be a jerk, The Jerk—to be more accurate. And you can skip ahead to after Chilton."

"So you can be Cletus the Slack-Jawed Yokel and I can't be Navin R. Johnson?"

"Cletus the Slack-Jawed Yokel?"

"You looked pretty slack-jawed a second ago from all that shock of me getting on the bus."

"Har-de-har."

"I thought it was funny."

"You and you alone. Now tell me what happened."

"So you know I went to military school in North Carolina after I broke into my dad's safe…"

"Yep."

"Well, I went, and I hated it. But then it sort of stopped being so bad—the girls love guys in uniform, you know? There wasn't really anything to do when I wasn't in school—I was stuck in the middle of nowhere. So I joined the paper. It's funny—I love North Carolina now. It—it changed me, I think. Anyway, I wrote a few pieces, and they made me the editor. The students and teachers all built me up to myself and got me believing I was amazing. Which is true, I might add. I fell in love with writing and decided that's what I wanted to do. My dad wasn't too happy about it—he'd been feeding me lawyer jargon since infancy. My first word was misjoinder. It's not like I would've been the most credible lawyer with my slightly criminal record anyway."

"You're probably right."

"I'm definitely right. So I finished high school and went to Cornell where I majored in journalism. I went back to North Carolina, got a job at Charlotte's main paper, and was almost immediately sent out here."

"Wow."

"Impressed?"

"I can't believe _you_ got into Cornell. You've gotta be a legacy, right?"

"Not important."

She smirked. "I thought so."

"Alright, your turn."

"Not so fast. Tell me 'bout the North Carolina and New York ladies. Any major relationships? "

"Nope, not a one. Okay, go ahead."

"No fair," she said with a pout.

"What, like you had some big life-changing boyfriend? Or have? You single?"

Rory looked away, trying to hold back sudden tears.

"Rory?" his voice had softened.

"I graduated from Chilton, went to Yale, and now I'm here writing for an internet company. And…I—I almost got engaged."

"To bag boy? Trust me, you made the right decision!"

"No—not Dean. Someone else."

A couple of tears had broken through.

"Hey." Tristan put his arm around her. "His loss."

She wiped at her eyes.

"You want me to kiss you? That's what I usually do when you've just broken up with someone and are totally vulnerable."

She laughed through her bleary eyes. He smiled. Mission accomplished.

"I really feel like an idiot."

"Don't." Tristan took her hand in his and rubbed it gently. She met his gaze.

MMMBOP BA DUBA DOP BA DO BOP, BA DUBA DOP BA DO BOP, BA DUBA DOP BA DO, OHH YEAAHHH

Rory smiled sheepishly. "That's my ringer." She pulled out her phone and checked the ID. "It's my mom…"

"I'll give you some privacy." Tristan stood up to switch seats.

"Thanks—a lot."

"Anything for you, Mary."

He moved away, and she looked after him for a minute, smiling to herself. The other bus patrons turning to glare at her for the loud Hanson music blaring from her seat steered her attention back to her cell. She answered.

"Mom!"

"Rory!"

"Judy!"

"Liza!"

"Ugh, why do I have to be the crazy one that abuses her butlers and marries gay guys?"

"Because you're the daughter. I'd take Minelli over being whacked out on opiates all the time any day."

"Oh, shush. At least you got to be Dorothy."

"True, but that scarecrow was _very_ handsy."

"So why'd you call, Mom?"

"Well, I was just reading over the birthday card I got from your great aunt Rita—addressed to Laura Morton and two weeks early—when I realized that this next birthday will be my first one in twenty-three years sans you."

"Aww, sad."

"Really sad."

"Hey, you've got Luke to replace me though, right?"

"Luke? You think grumbly old Luke can replace you—the light of my life, the fruit of my loins, the best birthday celebrator ever?"

"He won't let you install the pool will he?"

"I think a pool party for one's fortieth birthday is an amazing way to celebrate being old. It's not irrational at all."

"Well, the important thing is that you won't be all alone without me."

"I guess not," Lorelai said begrudgingly.

"Is he all moved in?"

"Yeah—it's almost like we've done all this moving before…"

"What do you think he got you as a present? An engagement ring?"

"After last time we're not going to be talking about marriage for a lonnnnng while. But this is my fortieth, so whatever he gets me better be good."

"Go easy on him."

"Sure, sure. Oh, guess what! I talked to April on the phone last night for an hour!"

"What time?"

"About 6:00…"

"When I called at 5:30 you told me you couldn't talk because you had to work."

"Right…work on my relationship with my boyfriend's daughter. You didn't get that?"

"Your exact words were, 'I have to work at the Dragonfly around 6:00.'"

"Yeah, Dragonfly's my little nickname for April. She won't answer to anything else anymore. She loves it. Just like you love it when I call you your nickname… my little… Centipede…"

"Trying to dodge your own daughter—that's just shameful."

"Hey kid, I'm trying to train your replacement. I told her my _The Godfather_/River Phoenix joke; she couldn't stop laughing."

"That's what I'd call humoring you. Yep—she will be a good replacement."

"Hey, that's a quality joke."

"Suuure."

"So how's the tour going?"

Rory hesitated. "Mom, Tristan's here."

"Chilton Tristan?"

"No, _Tristan and Isolde_ Tristan. James Franco is surprisingly needy."

"You gonna for it with him? You do need a good rebound guy."

Rory murmured some response, quite uncomfortably…she didn't want a rebound guy…she wanted Logan…didn't she? The idea of having a little fun with Tristan _had_ flitted across her mind. Logan had reminded her of Tristan when she'd first met him…Dugrey was as handsome—he had similar blonde hair…he was intelligent, rich, and slightly cocky…he even had a nickname for her—like Logan's affectionate Ace. But he didn't have that—that indescribable thing Logan had. She had never been able to put her finger on it. Tristan just wasn't Logan.

But no one would ever be Logan. Wasn't that right? And shouldn't she be trying to move on—Logan probably was… Rory was torn.

She snapped back into the conversation. Her mother was still chatting away about something—something about the inn, maybe?—totally unaware that Rory hadn't been paying attention.

"Mom," she interrupted. "Mom, I've gotta go."

"Why? Is there breaking news? Did Barack discover a new breed of puppy or plant a hundred endangered trees?" she joked.

"No." Rory came up with something fast—she needed to get off the phone with her Mom to think some more. "I'm not as young as I used to be, you know. The quesadillas I ate earlier today are just hitting my gut."

"Ahhh, I understand completely. Go, my child, and stink up the bus bathroom as you were born to do. Oh, and tell James that _Spiderman 3_ was insult to movies everywhere."

"Will do."

Rory hung up the phone and looked at the back of the very blonde head across the aisle and a few rows up from hers.

Rebound guy, eh?

**AN: That was a lot harder to write than I thought it would be—I hate the whole Lorelai/Luke thing—I'm a Christopher fan…but I didn't want to deal with too many stray details. You know I started out with the idea that this would be a Rogan…but I really liked writing the Trory part. As of now…it could really be either. I guess it sort of depends on what you guys say. Logan or Tristan?**


	3. Just a Couple of Idiots

**AN: So your response was extremely one-sided. Everyone wants Rogan! Well, I have to say I agree—not that that means I'm going to make things easy on these two. (Maniacal grin)**

_**San Francisco**_

Well thank God that was over. The last of his business associates had just exited the expensive French restaurant. The first of many business dinners to discuss progress had just occurred. Now he was the last one. As VP he would pick up the bill—he had no doubt it would be more than $3,000.

What the hell? He might as well make it $3,100 and get a bottle of wine. It had been another rough week.

After he'd gotten the wine he let his thoughts drift. Gordon would need to deal with some of those errant reporters of his, or he'd have to be replaced. Shit, his wife had just had a baby hadn't she? Now that Logan was out of college and actually had a prominent job, he guessed he'd have to start taking part in social customs. He'd send some sort of basket or something. Hopefully he wouldn't have to send home an unemployed husband, too. He'd also have to send a birthday gift to Evan Thompson. And Hanley Whitford was retiring soon. There were a string of anniversaries coming up this month. The Farnsworths, the Klipburns, the Kings, the Gilmores—oh damn. The Gilmores. What would he send—he and their granddaughter had just ended a long-term relationship. He sighed. And now he would begin to think of Rory. He should have resigned himself to that in the beginning—his thoughts always ended up filled with his Ace. It was fucking inevitable. He sat back in his chair and resigned himself to the fact that he'd spend the rest of his evening doing some wallowing.

He hadn't even realized that it had been the happiest time in his life. He'd assumed then that the happiest time in his life was to come—with Rory as his wife.

Boy had he gotten the rug pulled out from under him. Instead of the happiest, he'd gotten the most miserable era of his 25 years.

And it was all because he wanted to marry her. He—Logan fucking _Huntzberger_—had wanted to marry someone—a smart, witty girl of low means that wanted to work for the rest of her life. It would've been a huge scandal. But he didn't give a shit.

He'd thought his decision to propose had been the most grown up choice of his life. He wasn't the same guy he used to be—she had changed him. And he loved for that. Not just for that of course—he loved her for her stubbornness, her intelligence, her ambition, her naïveté in most things, her sense of humor, her smile, her eyes, her body…

She was his one. There would never be anyone else for him.

And he had wanted everyone in the world to know that.

Now that he couldn't have Rory—his future seemed extremely bleak. He'd work. He'd get drunk. He'd get laid by any girl who showed some interest. He'd inevitably marry to produce an heir. He'd still work, get drunk, and get laid elsewhere.

He'd become his father. The idea made him sick.

Logan wondered if maybe his father had lost someone like he had lost Rory. Could that explain his actions?

Logan shut his eyes. Trying to rationalize anything his father did was a waste of time.

The sudden burst of applause startled him. He looked around the crowded restaurant. A man and woman were standing together in the corner. Her left hand was held above her head to show off the engagement ring she'd just been presented with. And accepted. Her other hand was tightly entwined in her new fiancé's.

Well, sure. Of course someone would propose at this restaurant tonight. He refused to clap. So what if he wanted to be bitter and jealous towards anyone partaking in joy. He was allowed.

At the time, he hadn't realized his method of proposing to Ace had been incredibly inadequate. He knew now. He'd just been so eager to be connected to her forever. And he'd wanted everyone they knew to appreciate their relationship for what it was—what it was going to become.

Seeing the doubt cross her face in that first instant after he'd put himself out there for her in front of all those people had been the worst moment of his life. No contest. He'd been expecting—well, he'd been expecting the whole shebang. Jumping, crying, hugging. At least a smile. At least a yes.

The fact that she hadn't said yes right away had made it clear to him that she didn't really want to marry him. After her hesitation and request to be given time to think, he'd been broken.

The ache she'd left him with was immense. He wanted to be with her, and she didn't want him. Hadn't she been the first to say she loved him? Hadn't she been the one making references to _their_ future every now and again?

He'd felt shame. Her—her scorn for his feelings had humiliated him. And his pride had been irrevocably damaged. Pride was probably the only part of his old self that he'd retained in its full form. And she had stomped on it.

Still, he had looked forward to the day when she would come to him with her decision. He still clung to that persistent, desperate hope that Rory would agree to marry him.

But she hadn't agreed.

Then the ultimatum had come. He'd heard himself give it but didn't believe something like that could come from his own mouth. He _hated_ ultimatums. Couldn't stand them.

He didn't quite know what he'd been thinking at the time, but in hindsight he almost commended himself. He would've been a genius…if she'd said yes.

After all, it had taken one of her ultimatums to get him to commit to her—that had been the best thing he'd ever done.

And, deep down, he knew that the dynamic between them would be forever altered—for the worse. How could they just go back to being boyfriend and girlfriend when they could have been—should have been—husband and wife? Knowing she had rejected his proposal—the proposal he'd been so thrilled about—would always hang heavy on his mind.

Their relationship would be different. Logan didn't think he could handle it being off-tilt again, like it had been after Rory had found out he'd slept with a few girls when he'd thought they'd broken up. She had been distant and cold, saying she'd forgiven him when she obviously hadn't.

He couldn't go through that again. And he was intensely afraid he'd be the cold and distant one this time. Being responsible for the type of feelings she'd spurred in him back then was just not an option. He couldn't let his pride make them hate each other. And that's just what would happen if they'd gotten back together and tried the long distance thing again.

So he'd made the right decision with the ultimatum.

She just hadn't given the right response.

But blaming her was just too difficult for him. He knew it wasn't her fault. She just wasn't ready. Neither of them had been secure enough…

_If he'd only_ waited a few months and sat on his hands. Damn his impatient zeal.

It had cost him the girl he loved.

He was an idiot. He was a damn idiot.

_If he'd only_ thought up a more intimate way to ask her to marry him. He could have taken her to their quaint little Italian restaurant, asked her without making a fuss, without even announcing it to the other patrons. And then he could've taken her home to their bed and proven how much he loved her.

He considered the dynamic shift of dating again. Now it really didn't matter to him. He missed her. Screw dynamics. He would make things work if he could only be with her again. Sure he wouldn't have any Seinfeld 'hand' in the relationship, but he didn't need it.

Hand didn't matter. She mattered.

Rory could have all the hand.

As long as he could have Rory.

_**The Tour Bus**_

"Don't you dare!"

"Sorry, too late—my finger is hurtling toward the delete button and nothing can stop it now."

"NOOOOOO!" She tried to bat his hand off course, but Tristan's hand connected with that terrible button, and all the work she'd done for the last hour was erased forever. She brought her hands to her face in anguish.

"Nice theatrics there, Mary." He smirked.

"How could you do that? We just spent two hours compiling that list."

"No, _you_ spent two hours compiling that list. I wanted nothing to do with it."

Why hadn't she saved? Why?!

"Oh, don't look all pouty. You wouldn't have gotten very far with it, anyway."

"Those were all classics! I can't _believe_ you haven't seen so many movies. That list had all the films of cinematic gold you ever need to see. I would've sat you down and given my insights on all of them, and you would've been able to start a new, better life."

"I don't trust your movie taste for a second. You haven't even seen _Reservoir Dogs. Reservoir Dogs_! That list meant nothing to me."

"But you haven't seen _Reality Bites_ or—"

"I know all the movies I haven't seen. You just sat there for two hours and asked me if I'd seen oh, I don't know, about a thousand different movies. Every no I gave you sent you off on a rant."

"Okay, I don't think I can look at you anymore. I'm going to look out the window, and we aren't going to speak."

Rory turned from him in a huff, and he couldn't help but smile.

"Fiiiine. Hey, I'm going to ask Charlie about that poker game he was talking about starting up later tonight. Plans need to be laid. We need to pick the sappiest guys on the bus to play with us. I could use some hard cash."

She turned her head more sharply toward the window. "Hmph!"

He chuckled and made his way to the front of the bus and the older man with whom intended to clean out all the other reporters. If there was one thing Tristan knew, it was poker.

Rory couldn't help but look after him. He'd been there for a week now and was fitting into the lifestyle perfectly. He seemed to like it. She'd read one of his articles, and it was surprisingly good. Tristan also gave her some much-needed entertainment. She hadn't realized just how bored she'd been without someone to talk to all the time.

"Guess what." Tina had come out of nowhere to sit beside Rory—without asking. She had a malicious smile on her face. Surely she had something to brag about. This other reporter had been even more exasperating than usual the past week. She'd been flirting with Tristan shamelessly, shooting glances Rory's way as she batted her eyelashes and smiled suggestively. She obviously thought Rory had a thing for him and was trying to get her claws into him first. It didn't matter to Rory…really it didn't…she and Tristan were just friends…

"What?" she asked, sighing.

"I just got a call from someone at Mitchum _Huntzberger's_ camp. One of their papers wants me to write a little about Barack for them, too. Who would've thought the greatest newspaper company in the world would want me?"

"You," Rory grumbled under her breath. Tina shot her an icy glare.

"You know I _almost_ decided to go to Yale—" she said the word like it hurt her to do so— "because I knew Logan Huntzberger went there—oh, I guess you've probably heard that. You went there and all. But Harvard was offering a scholarship and is much more celebrated. Plus I figured Logan—" She stopped.

Shit. She'd noticed Rory's averted gaze at the mention of Logan.

"What?" Tina demanded.

"Nothing—absolutely nothing."

The other girl peered at Rory for a minute then laughed to herself. "Did you try to make some sort move on Huntzberger and get shot down Gilmore? No wonder you can't get a job a respectful paper."

Okay, now Rory was pissed off.

"I write for one of the most prestigious news sites in the nation! And no, I didn't get _shot down_ by Logan. He's my ex-boyfriend."

She regretted the words the moment they left her mouth. Not just for the emotions they stirred in her, but for what the black-haired girl in front of her would do with information like that.

Tina's eyes widened at the words Rory had just blurted out and then narrowed in suspicion. "You _dated_ Logan Huntzberger?"

"Yes."

"_Every_one knows Logan Huntzberger doesn't date."

"Well he did—for three years."

"If Logan Huntzberger was dating someone for three years, I would've heard about it. Every two months, Logan Huntzberger's featured in _The Enquirer_ for godsakes."

"I guess your tabloid's just not as reliable as you thought. Shocker. And stop saying Logan Huntzberger like he's some kind of brand name."

"Okay, you obviously had some sort of one night stand with the guy and think you dated. You're delusional, and it's pathetic."

"Think what you want."

She smirked. "I bet you ended up as just another one of the fucks he bragged to his buddies about…"

Now Rory was incensed. She had gone too far. This bitch couldn't just sit there and degrade everything she and Logan had together. Their relationship might have been over, but it was still sacred to her, and Tina Matthews's wasn't allowed to make comments like this.

Rory grabbed her purse and pulled out a stack of pictures. She always kept them with her. They hurt to look at, but she still did so almost every day. She almost _needed_ to see these windows into her old life as a reminder of what she'd given up.

She passed the photos to the other girl one by one without saying a word.

The two of them at Finn's Quentin Tarantino themed birthday party—someone had snapped a picture of them arguing and given it to Rory later. Both of their mouths were open as they yelled at each other. A smile came to her face at the memory.

A Life and Death Brigade event. Rory was smiling into the camera and Logan eyes were fixed intently on her.

Rory and Logan in bed together. Finn had barged in one morning and woken them with the flash of his camera. His reasoning had been slurred and jumbled. Rory—just waking up—was squinting at the flash while Logan gave Finn a murderous glare.

Walking into some sort of society event—Rory had forgotten which one. His arm was around her waist, and their heads were lightly touching.

Her favorite—their one year anniversary. They were seated at a table in that old Italian restaurant they loved. It had been such an amazing evening, all in celebration of Logan's accomplishment—a long term relationship.

The two of them kissing. He was wearing his cap and gown—it had been just before he'd left to get to the ceremony early. She had about a hundred pictures from that morning alone—including one of his naked butt—stored at home.

His going away party. This was a large group photo with Rory and Logan in the middle, her hand held in his. Everyone was in their London garb, and Finn's arm was slung carelessly around the girl dressed as the queen. Colin was raising his beer in a toast.

Last one. The couple just after they'd arrived at Rory's graduation party. Logan's smile was broad and his eyes were animated—he looked so happy, obviously excited about something. This was the picture Rory had taken out again and again—crying at the tainted memory of that night. She was able to look at it now without breaking into a sobbing fit, but her face was still somber.

As Tina studied each picture her look of astonishment grew more and more pronounced. She looked at Rory for a second—too stunned for words. Then the corners of her mouth curled up in a smug little sneer.

"So that's how you got this job."

"Hey, my employer is completely unaffiliated with the Huntzbergers."

"So why aren't you dating anymore? He dumped you like a sack of potatoes, huh? Got bored of you, right?"

Rory turned away from the other girl, trying not to show her sorrow. "No," she murmured.

"Don't—don't tell me _you_ broke things off?!"

Rory closed her eyes.

"I can't believe this! You gave up one of the most influential people in our generation?! I don't have to mention all the connections he has. He's not so bad to look at, either. And there's those, oh I don't know, three or four _billion_ dollars he stands to inherit—added to the millions he already has. You're an idiot for passing up all that money, all that opportunity!."

"No," Rory said through clenched jaws. "That's not who he _was_. I _am_ an idiot. For leaving the best man I've ever known. His money and status meant and mean nothing to me. Now get the fuck out of my seat."

"With pleasure." Tina stood and walked to the front of the bus, passing Tristan on the way. She made sure to press against him and whisper something in his ear as he passed by.

The blonde-haired, blue-eyed man sat down by Rory.

"You two fighting over me?"

"Not exactly."

"It's okay. You can admit it." He put his arm around her with a sly smile. "I swear I'll choose you."

**AN: So I hope that was coherent enough—I'm on three hours of sleep after my pre-Fourth of July festivities last night. So now it's crash time. If you want another update soon just remember—nothing puts a fire under my butt like reviews! Leave one…you know you're just dying to **


	4. You're Finally Dick Cheney

**AN- This took a lonnnng time to write. Totally worth it though—there'll finally be some Rogan interaction! Well—kind of…you guys might hate me after this. Tell me how much in a review :)**

_**A Stop on the Bus Route**_

_I _am_ an idiot. For leaving the best man I've ever known. _

The words echoed in her head over and over again. Rory sighed and rolled over on her lumpy hotel mattress. Sleep wasn't coming easily. She shut her eyes and tried to force all thoughts from her mind. As usual she was unsuccessful.

Stella, her roommate for the night, had been out the second her head hit the pillow. Rory glanced at the other bed. Lucky old woman.

For a second Rory contemplated the idea that her six cups of coffee that day were the cause of her insomnia. No, six was nothing. Sleep came easily enough when she'd had more than ten mugs. Her trouble sleeping was due to the icy exchange she and Tina had had on the bus earlier that day. The words had tumbled out of her mouth without thought.

_I _am_ an idiot. For leaving the best man I've ever known. _

She sighed. It was truly how she felt.

Yes. One little word. It wasn't so hard.

"Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes," she said clearly.

There, she could do it just fine now. So why couldn't she do it then? Why not on that night—the one that changed the course of her life?

Didn't she love him? Couldn't she imagine life with Logan Huntzberger as her husband? Didn't she want to be with him forever?

Yes.

She recalled her first inclination upon hearing his words.

"I don't know a lot. But I know that I love you. And I want to be with you. Forever. Rory Gilmore, will you marry me?"

She'd wanted to say yes. The words had been right on her lips. But her head had intervened. What had been her greatest asset had become her enemy. She'd begun to rationalize the whole thing. It wasn't practical. She'd just graduated. His family hated her. She had no job.

Her brain had taken over and controlled her response. That she needed time to think. Her heart had screeched in protest. She loved this man, and deep down she knew they could've worked things out.

She wondered if her response would've been the same if Logan had proposed differently. Probably not. Either way, his technique hadn't been right. It put too much pressure on her. And Rory had always been slightly shy—getting proposed to in front of a whole room of people had scared her shitless.

Really, Rory had always thought public proposals were terrible and very uncomfortable. She'd always cringed when guys had proposed at Disney World in front of the crowd. It just wasn't fair to the bride.

But the way he'd proposed didn't matter. The fact was that the two of them weren't stable enough for such a step. Marriage would've put too much strain on them as a couple, and then there would've been no 'them as a couple' to speak of.

But that's what had happened anyway, wasn't it? They weren't together. If only Logan had agreed to a long-distance relationship. But she understood—she knew his time in London had been hell for him. And returning to boyfriend and girlfriend after his proposal would certainly have been awkward.

Some people are engaged for more than a year.

The thought came out of nowhere. Could they have stayed engaged until she was ready for marriage? He, of all people, would have been extremely understanding of her need for time. As long as he knew that she would marry him eventually.

He would've supported her dream. She knew that. If she'd gotten this job while they were engaged, he would've encouraged her to take it. If she'd accepted his proposal she'd still probably be right where she was now.

The only differences would be the engagement ring on her finger and having someone other than her parents, Lane, and Paris to call and talk to when the road got too lonely—though Tristan was a good remedy to the blues now. And she bet Logan would've found a way for them to be together as much as possible—flying out to her whenever he could.

It would've been too hard on him with the knowledge that she'd turned him down for marriage, but he would've been eager to visit his fiancée.

Rory glanced at the digital clock beside her bed. 12:58 AM. She'd have to be up in five hours to get back on the bus.

Five hours. She couldn't possibly stay up for the next five hours. She'd fall asleep…now. Now. Now.

God, this was aggravating.

She would just shut her eyes again and not open them for anything.

The second her eyes closed, Rory saw Logan. She saw the nervous excitement on his face as he asked her to spend the rest of her life with him. She saw that hurt look when she hadn't said yes immediately. She saw the anguish when she told him she wasn't ready for marriage after her graduation.

She opened her eyes wide.

Maybe this old flame would erase those images. Maybe Tristan would help her move on…

* * *

Rory jolted awake, breathing heavily. She checked the clock. 3:00 AM. So she'd fallen asleep for a couple of hours. Why had she woken up? She was a sound sleeper. She didn't remember having any sort of dream—nightmarish or otherwise.

She settled her head back on her pillow and felt its dampness. She ran her hand over her cheek. She had cried in her sleep. There were tears on her pillow. Where was Sha-Na-Na when you needed them?

This was too much.

Rory grabbed her purse and went in search of a spot with service. The two dingy picnic tables near to the ice and soda machines would suffice. There was a dim light given off by a weak overhead lamp with a million little insects swarming around it. The air was warm, but Rory still felt chilled.

It was time.

She grabbed her phone out of her bag.

_**San Francisco**_

Logan laid his head down on his pillow for the first time in what seemed like years. It was 2:30 in the morning, and he had gotten home twenty minutes ago. Not from a bar. Not from some woman's place. From the office. He'd been working later and later the past week, but this was fucking ridiculous. He needed to get control of the situation. He couldn't be working 100 hour weeks. It'd kill him.

Logan turned on his ipod, hoping it would block out his thoughts and help him get to sleep.

_I'm dressed all in blue and I'm remembering you._

_And the dress you wore when you broke my heart_

_I'm depressed upstairs and I'm remembering where_

_And when and how and why'd you have to go so far?_

_Am I gonna be lonely for the rest of my life?_

No thanks, Rhett Miller. He pressed next on the shuffle.

_I go nowhere high._

_Go nowhere warm._

_Until I see your smile and feel your calm_

Kate Havnevik, you bitch. Next.

_Love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love._

_There's nothing you can do that can't be done._

_Nothing you can sing that can't be—_

Fuck you, Beatles. Next.

He saw it before the song started. Rick Astley's _Never Gonna Give You Up._

Next. Robert Palmer's _Bad Case of Loving You_.

Next. _I've Got You Under My Skin _by Sinatra.

Next. Burt Bacharach and Elvis Costello performing _I'll Never Fall in Love Again._

"Damnit!"

He turned his snide little bastard of an ipod off and tossed it into his drawer.

In lieu of music, or perhaps because of the subject matter of the songs he'd heard briefly, Logan's thoughts turned to the night he'd arrived in San Francisco.

The apartment he'd had fixed up just for them seemed empty and uninviting. Everything had been ready for them, just as he'd requested it be prepared over the phone.

A large banner was hanging just inside the foyer. Its large script mocked him. _Welcome Home Rory Huntzberger!_

It had been cheesy, but he knew she loved cheesiness.

There was champagne cooling on the bar. The tiny cake with the words _I love you_ written in frosting had been sitting on the kitchen table. The bed had been covered in flower petals.

Logan had dropped his bags at the door and sat down on the couch solemnly, taking it all in. That night should've been great—the start to their new life. Now it was just a reminder of Rory's absence.

He'd slept on the couch. It had taken him a week to sleep in the bed that was supposed to be theirs.

He'd been unable to take down all his preparations himself. He'd asked the maids to take care of it while he was at work.

Then he'd undertaken the task of removing things. The giant espresso machine, the coffee maker, the small avocado tree in the living room, most of the pictures of them spread around the many rooms…

He'd gathered all of her things on a table in his bedroom. Her pillow, some old files she'd given him to help research an article, the blue LDB dress, a few birthday presents she'd given him, several old books—among which was their shared copy of _The Old Man and the Sea_, and numerous pictures—including the one of their first anniversary dinner.

There they had remained. He knew the stack was there—from his bed he tried to keep his gaze from resting on what almost seemed like a Rory shrine. He lingered at that table almost every day at some point…If only he could—

The loud vibration of the cell phone sitting on his bedside table interrupted Logan's thoughts.

He blinked. It was 3:00 AM. Who would be—oh, right it was probably Finn. He'd left Laos and was now in Argentina—or somewhere similar—and he wasn't so great with time differences.

Logan picked up the phone and checked the caller id. His breath hitched in his throat.

Rory.

Rory was calling him. His hands shook as tried to open it quickly, eager to hear her voice after so long. He fumbled with device and it fell to the floor breaking in half.

"No! No no no no no no no!"

This couldn't be happening! He lunged for the cell, trying to put it back together as fast as possible. He'd call her back, and they'd talk—damn, he missed talking to her. His fingers seemed slow and heavy. If the phone wouldn't go back together in the next ten seconds he was going to sprint for one of his apartment's phones in the next room.

10…9…8...7...6…Yes! He'd done it. The phone was connected correctly. He turned it on, crossing his fingers and praying that it would work. Ha! It was functioning!

He began to dial her number, but a voicemail alert interrupted his actions. She'd left him a message!

He quickly dialed his access code and impatiently listened as the automated voice told him the date, time, and caller's phone number. Then he heard her voice. Just the first few words brought a smile to his face—that voice—it was so distinctly Rory.

"Hey Logan…this—this was dumb. I shouldn't have called. It's 3 o'clock in the morning."

So she was in his time zone.

"Of course you wouldn't be awake—you have a job to do. I was laying here trying to get to sleep and I thought of you and… Well, you're not there so this is…" She sighed. "I'm trying to say…that I—I miss you."

His heart soared—he thought his chest would explode. She missed him! She missed him!

"But—"

Uh-oh.

"Don't call me back, okay? This was stupid. I'm just—sleep deprived is all. Things didn't work out. I've got to accept that. You calling would be bad for both of us."

The words stung.

"You've moved on. I've moved on."

She'd moved on? He certainly hadn't moved on.

"This was stupid," she repeated.

Logan heard a man's voice on the other end of the phone. He couldn't quite make out her response. His fists tightened in anger. His Ace was with another man at 3 in the morning?

"I've gotta go. Just—just forget what I said. Congrats on the vice-president thing. Your wildest dream has come true—you're finally Dick Cheney." She gave a half-hearted laugh. "Have a—I'll—umm…goodnight."

He heard the man's voice again. The phone clicked off. As did Logan's thoughts.

All he felt was despair, grief, and heated fury. He was barely conscious of the rampage he took through his apartment—breaking anything in his path, turning over furniture, ripping cords from the walls, hurling things around, and swearing at the top of his lungs.

It was only after he'd punched a hole through the bathroom wall that he became aware of himself again. He'd caught his face in the mirror—contorted in rage and pain.

He held his own gaze, breathing deeply and clutching his now injured hand.

This had gone too far.

Somehow she was controlling his life, and she didn't even want to speak to him.

Logan made his way to his room, to the table stacked with Rory's belongings.

He needed to make a decision.

Cut all ties to Rory. Or go win her back.

The loud clatter as her mementos hit the metal trash can cut Logan to the bone.

_**The Picnic Tables**_

Of course it had hurt her to say those words. Rory had intended to call Logan and have some kind of magical reconciliation over the phone. But he hadn't answered and that had left her unsure of herself.

She needed to save face in case he didn't feel the same way. She'd have felt tremendously foolish if she'd called, professed that she missed him, and had him listening to the message and laughing at her.

She was hoping he'd pick up on the desperation and woefulness of her voice and call her back, despite her request that he refrain.

"You've moved on. I've moved on. This was stupid."

"Hey, Mary—thought I heard you out here. Can I—oh, sorry, didn't see the phone."

"Oh, that's okay. I'm almost done."

"I've gotta go. Just—just forget what I said. Congrats on the vice-president thing. Your wildest dream has come true—you're finally Dick Cheney." Rory tried to laugh, but she was in no mood. She didn't know how to say goodbye. "Have a—I'll—umm…goodnight."

"You okay?" Tristan asked as she hung up the phone.

"Uhh—I think I will be."

"Ex?"

She nodded her head.

"Can I treat you to something to drink?"

She smiled lightly at him, glad he wasn't pressing her about her phone call. "Sure."

"What'll you have? Orange soda? I do a mean Kenan and Kel impression."

"No, make it a Sprite."

"Alright, but you're missing out."

"I can only imagine."

He bought her a sprite and took a seat across from her.

"So what do I get for giving you this?"

"I believe you asked if you could treat me to something. That implies free, no strings attached, gratis."

"That doesn't sound like me…"

She sneered at him and grabbed the drink.

"Hey!"

"Snooze, you loose, buddy."

He smiled at her, his eyes lighting up. Rory pretended not to notice and busied herself opening the can of Sprite. She took a long swig. He was still looking at her.

"Rory…"

"Yessir?" She would've been embarrassed for her the squeaky tone of her voice and her seemingly out of place response, but she was too busy panicking. No one had looked at her like that since Logan.

"I've had a lot of fun this week. You've made my first few days really enjoyable."

She smiled.

"I want tell you about this now, before we become too good of friends, and things get awkward. Back at Chilton…I really did have feelings for you. I didn't torment you just to torment you. I didn't know what else to do. I'm sorry about that."

Rory digested the information. He was looking at her pointedly, awaiting some kind of response. She would just have to be honest.

"Yeah, I guess my feelings back then were more than platonic, too."

Rory heard him release the breath he'd been holding. She raised her eyes to meet his, trying to gauge his reaction.

He was leaning across the table, going in for a kiss. Before she knew what she was doing, Rory was leaning in, too.

At first she was uncomfortable—his lips seemed out of place on hers. She hadn't kissed anyone but Logan for three years.

He brought his hand to her porcelain cheek, applying more pressure on her lips as he did so.

Rory ignored the discomfort and began to surrender herself to the tingling her body was feeling—not the thoughts racing angrily and bee-like through her head.

After they parted she immediately felt shame and guilt.

And exhilaration and passion.


	5. Because I Have To

**AN: Sorry for the delay. And this one's pretty short. I blame my internship and the newest Harry Potter.**

* * *

_**The Tour Bus**_

Tristan Dugrey's hand, firm and confident, found its way higher up the thigh of the once-thought oh-so-innocent Rory Gilmore.

Her chest tightened as her heart raced even faster. It had been so long since she had felt this way—truly desired. That hand was digging into her, craving her, trying to get more. His lips burned against hers, and his tongue clashed wildly with hers.

Rory let out a slight moan and nipped his tongue gently. Tristan grunted gutturally in response. His free hand found the bottom of her shirt and began to work its way under, caressing her creamy skin.

"Stop!" She pulled away suddenly, on reflex, and hit her head against the window of the tour bus.

He was breathless. "Wh—what?"

Rory, bright red, sank low in the seat, trying to avoid the eyes of the many reporters that had just snapped in their direction.

She rubbed the back of her head. "I—I—we shouldn't be doing this back here," she stammered.

"Why? I thought it was going quite well…" He brought his hand to her waist and smirked.

"It was; it was. It's just—what if they see?" She glanced up to see everyone beginning to turn back around.

If Rory were to be honest with herself, she'd have to admit this was a cover—she'd completely forgotten they were even on the bus. What had made her call out were the unfamiliar hands going up her shirt—she was not ready for hands that weren't _his_ hands to go a' roaming.

"Hey, I'd be happy to provide a little entertainment."

"Well, feel free to go into your dance. _Your_ being the key word. I'm much more of a behind-closed-doors kind of girl."

"No PDA. Got it."

"Hey, a few smooches are all fine and dandy, but that was getting a little too heated."

He smirked. "Smooches? Fine and dandy? Okay, Grandma."

"Dugrey! You want me to proof your piece or not?" a reporter called from the front of the bus.

"Just a second, Gene," he called.

"Tristan!" Rory gave him a disapproving look. "I can proof your pieces!"

"No, thank you. Last time you did that I had a seizure from how much color I saw swirling across the paper."

"Red's for misspellings, green's for grammar, purple's for rewording, blue's for—"

"Yeah—I know. Gene uses one pen. And makes little to no changes. I like Gene. Now if you'll excuse me."

"Fine."

He took her hand and kissed it lightly. "You might want to cover up your ankles, Grandma. The guys have been talking."

She rolled her eyes as he walked away.

Rory looked out the window at the passing road, still a little shaken about what had transpired just now. It had taken a solid week just to get used to kissing him, and that was in private. She still wasn't completely comfortable. She wondered if she ever would be. Rory didn't think she'd be able to let things…progress…at least not for a _very_ long while. Damn Logan—why had been so good at kissing, and touching, and caressing, and…

Rory felt her phone vibrate. She'd learned from the time her mom had called that a bus full of journalists wasn't complacent with Hanson ringing out at top volume. Rory didn't recognize the number.

"Hello?"

"Rory?"

"Lane! Where are you? How's the tour? How's Zach? How're the twins? Have Gil and Brian been fighting? Any big _Spinal Tap_ moments? Have you met anyone famous yet? Are you famous yet? Ah, it's all so exciting!"

"Rory, you asked me all those questions when we talked last week."

"Well your responses could all be different."

Lane laughed. "Which question should I answer first?"

"Take your pick; they're all good."

"I'm calling from a pay phone in Kansas—Topeka to be precise."

"Hey, I'm in Kansas City right now!"

"That's not even the same state."

"Well I know that. But it's like we have a connection."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. The tour's great, Zach's great, the twins are great. Gil and Brian have been fighting. Brian's been blasting his _The Sound of Music_ soundtrack non-stop, and Gil swears that if he hears _How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria?_ one more time, he's leaving the band. But hey—when they aren't fighting, they're practically inseparable—they have it in their heads that now that Zach and I are married, it's us against them, so they have to have this united front on everything. Everything except _The Hills Are Alive_ of course. Nothing _Spinal Tap_py quite yet, but there's still plenty of time. We met the Dandy Warhols and a band that we thought was Guster—it was really Gloucester—but they were pretty good, too. And as for the famous part…we were featured in a national newspaper!"

"Lane, that's so great! What newspaper? I'll pick up a copy at the next stop we make."

"Well…when I said newspaper I was kind of…exaggerating. It's more of a…tabloid." She rushed the last word under her breath.

"Don't worry—no publicity is bad publicity. I'll still even deign to read it—no tabloid can be too trashy if you're in it."

"And this one's not even so bad. It has a whole section on new bands that's usually pretty readable. Sure they dramatized the whole married band members dragging their twins along angle, but it was in a good light—sort of. And it'll help the band, right?"

"Of course it will," Rory said, smiling. She was humoring her friend, and Lane knew it. But that was fine. Lane in a tabloid—that was hilarious. "So what's it called? I want an issue to keep forever—I'll even flaunt it around all my peers and let them know my best friend is hitting it big—keeping a hand over the name of the paper of course."

"Rory…"

"Getting all modest now? Spit it out Lane, or I'll just scour all the crappy papers out there for you."

"It's _The Querier—_Tuesday's issue…but don't pick it up—trust me."

"What? Of course I'm going to pick it up."

"Rory—the cover of this particular issue—the one featuring us…its cover is…"

"What?"

"Ummm…"

"Lane!"

"Logan! Logan's on the cover with Deena Tillman."

Rory was taken aback—she would never have suspected anything like this. "D—Deena Tillman, the new Tarantino girl?"

"That's the one."

"Oh."

There was silence.

"Rory…?"

"No Lane…it's fine. It's fine. He's moving on—he's allowed to move on. I'm moving on. Tristan and I—we're great."

"Really? I thought you said you weren't sure where it was going…"

"It's going straight to the—um—top. We are hot and heavy. I wouldn't be surprised if we—you know—any day now. Yeah, I bet you by then end of the week, we'll be _together_ together."

"Rory…"

"What?"

"I thought you said you were having trouble getting used to him in that area."

"Well things have changed."

"Rory…"

"Stop saying my name like that! If you'll remember I had sex before you ever did. You were practically afraid of it, remember? I'm no inexperienced little kid."

"Why are you rushing things all of a sudden? Shouldn't you find the right moment for you two based on your feelings for each other? It sounds like you're treating this like a deadline…or like a solution to lingering feelings for another certain blo—"

"Lane! That's not what it's like." Her voice was rising in anger—Lane didn't have a say in her personal life.

"Rory you've known the guy for a month!"

"No, he joined the tour a month ago. I've known him since I started at Chilton."

"Don't be silly. You were sixteen then. And you hated him."

"I didn't _hate_ him. And he's different now. I'm just moving on, Lane. Logan's moving on. So am I!"

"Rory, don't talk like that!"

"I'll talk how I like!"

"Be straight with me."

"I am."

"Be straight with yourself."

"I am!"

"Okay, tell me. Why are you doing this with Tristan?"

Rory's voice was low and quiet. "Because I have to."

She hung up the phone and turned it off, knowing Lane would call her back immediately. She turned to look out the window again, but didn't see anything as the bus drove on.

She had to. It was as simple as that.

Logan wasn't considering her feelings at all.

He could move on. He could have sex with other people and not care at all.

So could she.

* * *

_**San Francisco**_

Logan spit his mouthful of toothpaste into the sink, rinsed off his brush, and set it down on the side of the sink.

The hole he'd made in the wall of the bathroom had been repaired, and it was as if his late night rampage a few weeks ago had never occurred. The maids had cleaned up the mess he'd made in no time. His home was as it had been—with the exception of her things. He'd thrown out her belongings, he'd stayed up until the garbage trucks had come, and he'd watched as they'd taken it all away. He didn't need any reminders of her in his vicinity. The place was almost completely void of pictures of any kind now. He'd taken down all the apartment's art. He'd even had the walls repainted. It was a blank slate. Logan felt as if he'd cleansed his life of her.

He examined his face in the mirror.

Logan was happy. Well, reasonably happy. Relatively happy?

He wasn't giving himself time to dwell, and that was good. Right?

He'd turned his life around. He went days without thinking of her. No more lamenting. No more searching. No more pining.

A Roryless existence.

It wasn't ideal, but there wasn't anything he could do about that.

He'd begun to work for a normal life in earnest.

He made sure he had regular business hours. Almost regular, at least.

He'd cut his drinking in half. He rarely went to bars anymore. And that meant fewer women. There were still some—but it was a trickle compared to the flood he'd been growing accustomed to.

He went to the gym every weekend. He joined in pick-up basketball games and started playing tennis again. He'd been a champ in high school.

He was beginning to make friends in San Francisco. It wasn't so hard—easy, even. He genuinely liked Californians.

He was living a healthy, normal life. He was beginning to establish roots. He was losing the dark circles under his eyes and the haunted look he'd always had before. He was becoming more confident in his job and in himself as an independent man.

Logan wanted to make more changes. He was thinking of taking up surfing. And investing in some kind of beach house. And getting a pet.

He was even thinking he'd try the whole commitment thing again—he missed that companionship. There was a lady he saw in the elevator every morning at work. Her office was somewhere in the same building as his. He was considering asking her out on a date—a real date. Logan didn't let himself think about this lady's brown hair and blue eyes—they weren't that similar to Rory's. They weren't.

Okay, maybe that wasn't a good idea. There was a blonde he'd interacted with a few times who worked at the mayor's office. She seemed reasonable, witty, and receptive. She was pretty. She had scruples. Her name was…Grace. The next time he went to visit old Gavin, he'd ask Grace out to dinner. And he wouldn't have sex with her at the end of the night. And he'd ask her out again, even if he didn't like her.

Why?

Because he had to.

Logan nodded at himself in the mirror. His dark brown eyes were determined.

He'd do it today. No sense in putting it off.

Things were really turning around. He was optimistic for the first time in a long time. He really _was _happy.

Logan left the bathroom and picked up his keys from his bedside table. He'd take the Jag today. It felt like a Jag kind of day.

He felt a slight pang of guilt as his eye was caught by what remained on his bedside table, but turned away from it. He needed to pretend it wasn't there. He needed to pretend he'd thrown it out. If not, he didn't think he could move on like he was so diligently striving to do.

He left the apartment for work.

Upon his bedside table were only a few scant objects.

His alarm clock—which he hated more than anything.

A framed picture of three young men, beers hand. Two had dark hair; the one in the middle was blond. There were wide smiles on their faces.

An empty glass that had held his water the night before.

Another framed photograph, this one set on a yacht. Two similar-looking kids—one male and one female—had their arms slung around each other in a display of sibling affection. Their fair hair was slightly windswept.

A phone, programmed with a wide array of business contacts.

A final picture—this one's frame cracked from being thrown. There were bottles of wine hanging from the ceilings of the restaurant. A couple sat at a table, holding hands. They looked happy, in love. The blond man's smile was genuine. The wavy brown hair, iridescent alabaster skin, and vivid blue eyes of his partner stood out in utter radiance.


	6. Adiós Humberto

**A shiny new chapter, just for you! **

_**San Francisco**_

_November._

It was already a few days in, and he still couldn't believe it. He'd been living in the Golden Gate City for more than five months. 159 days to be exact. He'd been vice-president of Huntzberger Publishing Group since the first of July, and he'd been dating Grace Talbot since August ninth.

Damn, it _really_ didn't seem like he'd been there almost half a year. But when Logan reminisced about his Yale days it seemed a lifetime away. Boozing with Finn, poker with Colin, LDB events, yachting (stealing, sinking, and otherwise), term papers, the Hartford social circle—all of it seemed a distant memory. Even London was getting foggy (no horrible pun intended).

_November._

For some reason Logan was having particular difficulty wrapping his mind around this one. October hadn't been so offsetting. September had been a breeze. He didn't understand.

Thanksgiving was this month. That was another mindblower. He'd spent his last Thanksgiving with…He restlessly ran his hand through his hair.

Logan took a deep breath. Reminiscing about Yale and the guys was all well and good, but he didn't want to go down a path of no return. Not when he'd been doing so well.

Logan loosened his tie and pulled the daily planner out of his desk drawer. There were meetings scheduled every day this week. Nothing was set for Thanksgiving weekend—yet. He briefly pondered returning to Connecticut.

No.

He couldn't face his (_their_) old stomping grounds.

And he could go the rest of his life without seeing all the Huntzbergers together. He'd let Honor take this one and make it up to her later. Logan would claim he couldn't get away from work. Surely some sort of staff meeting could be arranged—not anything mandatory for the others, just something his father would accept as an obligation. _The news doesn't stop for turkey and football, as much as those damn Indian lovers want you to believe it._ That was just one of Mitchum's many holiday mottos. His Christmas collection was especially expansive.

Honestly, Logan wouldn't be surprised if his father was in San Francisco for Thanksgiving. At first he'd thought Mitchum was in town so often to keep an eye on him, but the man seemed pleased with Logan's ability. Apparently this city was the elder Huntzberger's favorite place in the world. He'd lived in San Francisco just after graduating college, and he never went more than a couple of months without a visit.

Go figure. He saw more of Mitchum now that he was living 3,000 miles away than when they'd lived under the same roof.

Logan recalled the day he'd rejoined the Huntzberger Publishing Group. He had rebounded from his first failed internet company with one that was fairly successful. Nothing world-changing, but it had had potential. Mitchum had shown up out of the blue and offered him a deal. He'd wanted his son's company. For purely business-related reasons, of course. He'd wanted to buy it, and he'd wanted Logan to take his rightful place as his number two. He'd pushed dazzling salary numbers in his son's face and thrown about phrases like 'family responsibility' and 'honored tradition.'

Normally Logan would've sent him packing. But that had been just two weeks after Rory had rejected him. He had ceased to care what direction his life was headed. So he'd taken the job to appease his father. And while he'd expected a permanent position under Mitchum's thumb, Logan was given a reasonable amount of free reign. He'd been able to show his skill and prove that he deserved his job. Not that that made working for his father much more bearable. Mitchum would always be Mitchum.

Logan sighed. He really needed to get back to work. He looked at the clock on his office wall. No time for lunch—again. Not with the business presentation scheduled at three. He rolled his shoulders, trying unsuccessfully to rid them of some of the tension eternally harbored there.

Just as he was starting to get lost in the thick of the terms of the latest deal, his business haze was penetrated by the shrill ring of his phone followed by the voice of his secretary as the device went automatically to speaker.

"Mr. Huntzberger? Miss Talbot is here to see you."

"Thanks, Molly. Send her in."

Grace swept into the room, brightening it instantly. Her healthy tan was flawless, her shoulder-length blonde hair was pulled into a flattering ponytail, and her green eyes glittered appealingly. She beamed at Logan, happy to see her boyfriend.

"Hey—did we have something planned?" he asked as she came around to his side of the desk and gave him a peck on the cheek.

She laughed lightheartedly. "No." She held up the takeout bag in her hand. "I figured you'd be too busy for lunch again, and I don't like you skipping meals. So I brought you tacos!"

"Oh, great. Thanks a lot." He smiled perfunctorily at her.

To all outward appearances they were the perfect couple. A young and gorgeous pair that just couldn't get enough of each other. But Logan just didn't feel as if he could be himself with her. And that was no fault of Grace. She really was wonderful. Under other circumstances, he'd probably be madly in love. It wasn't fair to her that she had to be the first after…after the big one. Logan hated putting her through this—he hated automatically donning his society mask, the sickly sweet persona he used with business associates and their wives. He never intended to do so, she was his girlfriend after all, but some part of him seemed to leave the room whenever she entered.

"Busy?" she asked, playfully flipping through some of his papers.

"As always," he responded. Logan couldn't believe that Grace didn't realize he was putting on a show for her. Ror—his ex had hated "Function Logan," and had let him know it. But, to be fair, Grace didn't know him any other way. He was polite to her, and his natural charm took over whenever they interacted—no part of himself was truly invested.

Of course, he never let himself think that. Denial was the best policy in this case. It had worked for the Huntzberger family for years. He genuinely liked Grace Talbot. And she was amazing in bed. Her personality was bright; no one could _dis_like her. There was even a little affection there. It was less than nothing next to what he'd had with—well that didn't matter. Comparing just wasn't fair.

If anyone had the potential to get him past Rory Gilmore, it was Grace. Sure he was disconnected now. He would simply get connected. He had time. It had only been—God—three months.

"I'm only here on my lunch break, and traffic today is remarkably cruel. That means I have to scoot. We're still having dinner tonight?"

"Acquerello, right?"

"Right. And we're spending the night at your place?" she asked with a raised eyebrow and devilish grin.

"Sure." He smiled then returned the brief kiss she planted on his lips.

"See you at your place at 7:30," Grace called over her shoulder as she left the office.

"7:30," he confirmed. Logan rolled his shoulders, again trying to rid himself of tension. He sighed, realizing it was no good. He eyed the bag of tacos, blocking out the numerous Rory/taco experiences he'd had that came flooding to memory.

This just wasn't his day. This just wasn't his _month._

"Damn November." Logan grabbed a taco and turned back to his work.

* * *

Logan entered his penthouse apartment and dropped his suitcase by the door. He wasn't surprised to see three sets of eyes snap up eagerly in his direction. Funny how the maids always seemed to finish up just after he returned from work, no matter what his hours were. 

All three quickly collected their supplies and gathered in front of him, batting their eyelashes and smiling alluringly.

He'd fucked two of the three of them. And he honestly couldn't remember which two. It had been just after he'd arrived.

"We've just finished, Mr. Huntzberger," one said, biting her lip in a seductive manner.

"Great," he said, a wooden smile on his face, as he brushed past them. "Looks clean. Can't even smell the litter box."

They giggled a little too loudly. Logan made his way to his room, stepping over the large orange tabby that crossed his path. He shut the door, removed his jacket and tie, and sat on his bed, letting the stress of the day drain slowly away.

"Mr. Huntzberger?" a maid called from the hall after knocking lightly on the door. Logan rolled his eyes, sure she was trying to find some excuse to be alone with him in his bedroom.

He crossed the room and opened the door, looking at the young lady before him questioningly.

"We're about to take off. This package was outside your door when we arrived." She handed the box over to him with something that sounded like a purr.

"Thanks," he said, quickly shutting the door in her face.

He wasn't expecting anything to be delivered. There was no return address. A mystery package, eh? Finally, a little intrigue added to his life.

What could it be?

Japanese beer from Colin?

Some sort of care package from an overly-protective Honor?

A shrunken head from that prick Robert?

A dozen pairs of panties from a dozen different women from a dozen different countries from Finn? He always liked to brag of his various debaucheries.

'Important' documents from his father mailed directly to his home instead of the office because of their 'urgency'?

He'd received each one of those in package form before.

Logan took out his pocket knife and cut the tape that secured the cardboard box.

He removed the oddly shaped, wrapped item from its foam peanut-filled container, wondering what it was and who had sent it. His eye caught sight of an envelope taped to the…gift?

He ripped the envelope from its position and removed the small folded card inside.

The slip of paper fell out of his hands as his body jerked involuntarily.

_Logan _was written on the outside of the note.

But it wasn't his name that made his mouth go dry and his hands shake as he bent to retrieve the card.

It was the neat, precise handwriting.

Rory's handwriting.

He held his breath and slowly unfolded the paper.

_Can you believe it's that time of year again? Guy Fawkes Day is upon us!_

Was it really November _fifth_? Logan closed his eyes in frustration. How had he forgotten?

_Last year, on this day I received from you a complete British tea set, a miniaturized Big Ben, and a personalized note signed by Princes William and Harry. I still can't believe that last one._

_I was shopping for a birthday present for my mom when this object caught my eye. I couldn't not buy it for you. And I figured Guy Fawkes Day was the perfect opportunity to send it to you._

_I know you hate waking up to Humberto's buzzing._

Humberto…? That's right; she'd named his alarm clock. She'd felt sorry for the violent way he handled it and the gruff string of curse words he spat at the device each morning.

_Enclosed with this note is a very British solution that I hope you'll enjoy. Let Humberto retire in paz._

The rest of the note was been written in another color, as if added later.

_Logan, I truly hope that someday we can be friends. I can't not have you in my life. "Life without a friend is like death without a witness." _

_I've heard from a few of my tabloid junky friends that you're doing well. Congratulations on your relationship with Grace Talbot. I'm involved with Tristan Dugrey. He mentioned that you two have met a few times. See? We've both recovered exceptionally well._

Logan's stomach dropped upon reading these words. Dugrey? That guy was a piece of shit if he'd ever met one. And Logan couldn't believe she knew about Grace. Sure they were in a few—all—of those sensationalist rags, but…But what? She was right. They were _both_ dating other people. He couldn't be angry. Especially after she'd sent him…whatever it was she'd sent him.

_Have a bonny November fifth. And always remember our hero's important words. "A desperate disease requires a dangerous remedy!"_

Working to keep his breathing stable and his fingers steady, Logan unwrapped the egg-shaped object.

He smiled.

It was a yellow submarine—images of each of the Beatles in its windows. It was an alarm clock. He plugged it into the wall and set its alarm to go off.

_We all live in a yellow submarine,  
Yellow submarine, yellow submarine,  
We all live in a yellow submarine,  
Yellow submarine, yellow submarine,_

_And our friends are all aboard,  
Many more of them live next door,  
And the band begins to play._

_We all live in a yellow submarine,  
Yellow submarine, yellow submarine,  
We all live in a yellow submarine,  
Yellow submarine, yellow submarine._

It was perfect.

He could wake up to this every morning with way less rage than before.

Logan saw another envelope sitting on the floor and figured it must have fallen from the package. He opened it and removed a fake mustache, a tiny sombrero, and a scrap of paper that read _For Humberto._

He laughed. God, this was so…so Rory.

Logan's eyes swept over everything, taking all of her efforts in at once. He felt a tenderness that had been absent for such a long time—159 days to be exact.

He had to call her. He had to thank her for such thoughtfulness. He had to hear her voice. Logan ran for his cell phone. Upon reaching it and dialing the first half of her number, he hesitated.

Her words concerning Tristan Dugrey hit him again, full force. And she'd said she wanted to be friends. He could never be _friends_ with Rory. Not in a million years. Especially if she was dating someone else. Especially if that someone was Dugrey.

But he longed to contact her. The gift and the rest of the note had really affected him.

What the fuck was he supposed to do?

He needed some kind of sign. And quick.

Logan got down on his knees and looked upward. Sure he was a protestant—the Huntzberger family was the…uh leader? alpha? queen wasp?...of the Connecticut WASPs. But Logan certainly wasn't religious.

Hey, now was as good a time as any to start. He needed some serious guidance.

"God? Zeus? Jesus? Krishna? Buddha? Athena? Brahma? Morgan Freeman? Whoever the hell—heck, I mean, is up there…send me some kind of sign."

Nothing.

"Please?"

"Logan, you ready?" Grace called out from the foyer—she'd entered using the key he'd given her last week.

He narrowed his eyes at the ceiling. "Assholes," he muttered.

But they were right.

He had made so much progress in getting over Rory. He had someone who truly felt for him. And someday he would feel for her. Rory had a boyfriend of her own. He got to his feet and hung up his phone.

Logan made his way through the apartment to where Grace, dressed stunningly, was waiting. She kissed him deeply and looked at him with those shining green eyes of hers.

"I am so happy to see you."

He smiled, touched by her sincerity.

She took a deep breath and looked at him anxiously.

"What?"

She blushed. "I want to tell you something."

"What?"

She blushed again.

"What is it?"

"Don't rush me," she chided with a laugh. "Logan…I love you," she said, her honest face looking eagerly into his.

"I love you, too."

The words came from lips that weren't his. He heard the profession, and it sure sounded like him, but there was no way he had just said that. It was the response that came automatically.

She hugged him tightly and crushed her lips to his. He mechanically brought his arms to her waist, pulling her in.

"Why don't you head down? I'll be right there," he said breathlessly after they'd parted.

Grace smiled, nodded, and made her way out the door.

Logan closed his eyes.

Damn.

This was not good.

He brought his hand up to rub his face and realized that he still held Rory's note. He glanced at it and saw what he wished he'd seen while begging for a sign.

It was a tear stain.

_Fuck._

_**A Stop on the Bus Route**_

Rory stared at the package sitting on her hotel bed.

To send or not to send?

When Rory had seen the yellow submarine alarm clock she'd instantly thought of Logan.

Whenever she encountered any alarm clock she thought of his intense (and understandable) loathing of his own device. Poor old Humberto had endured a lot of angry punches to the snooze button.

And anything having to do with England brought Logan to her mind's eye. She figured that would always be the case.

So she'd bought the alarm clock, not quite knowing what to do with it. And now Guy Fawkes Day was coming up. It was their day. And his gift last year had been magnificent. When she'd told him, "Say hi to William and Harry for me," she'd had no idea he actually knew them. So he'd gotten them to write a note to her and then he'd waited a year till the next Guy Fawkes Day and surprised her with it. She'd been dumbfounded.

And there was nothing wrong with sending a gift to someone who had gone to such lengths for her, right?

She bit her lip nervously.

What if he thought it was silly?

Rory sighed. She had spent an hour and a half writing that card. She wanted it to be perfect. At first she'd kept it light, but then she'd gone on to add that part about them being friends. She wanted to show that she was okay with his new girlfriend. Not that she was really okay with the pretty blonde. And she would feel terribly guilty sending this gift to him with no mention of Tristan. He was her boyfriend, and Rory didn't want to hide that from her ex. Not really, anyway. Of course, the emotions she'd felt while writing the damn thing had overwhelmed her and she'd started to cry. But she'd collected herself, and now everything was running smoothly.

She really didn't know what to do. She _wanted_ to send the damn thing. But she dreaded it, too. What if he didn't respond? What if he did respond?

Even if he did, she had no address for him to respond to. And she'd lost her cell phone last month, having to change the number in the process of getting a new one. If he tried to call he'd be told the number was disconnected. Sure she could've put the new number in the note, but…it just didn't seem _right._ None of this seemed right.

She heard the keycard in the door and quickly hid the package under the bed. Tristan entered the room, their bags in tow. She met his eyes and smiled, trying to keep from looking guilty.

"What took you so long?"

"Greg intercepted me on the way here."

Rory winced. "He find out we're sharing a room?"

"Of course he did—I was bragging about it to all the guys today," he said with a smirk.

She rolled her eyes.

"He volunteered to control the check-in list and saw that we were listed as sharing a room with one king-sized bed," he clarified. "So I got attacked with questions of my intentions and the repercussions of such a terrible deed to both of our reputations. Your virtue is really very important to him."

"Everyone's virtue is important to Greg," Rory said, annoyed, as always, with the preachy reporter.

Tristan set their suitcases in the closet. "There is something seriously wrong with that guy."

"You know, once, about a week before you showed up, he got really drunk—he thought his vodka tonic was just tonic water—and he tried to get me back to his room."

"Damned dirty ape," Tristan deadpanned. "You want me to beat him up for you?"

"Of course I do."

"After my shower," he said, kissing her as he walked towards the bathroom. "Care to join me?" he said in low, husky voice.

"Tempting, but not tonight," Rory answered with a laugh. "I...I need to give my mom a call, anyway." She wasn't sure why she felt she needed an excuse or why she felt she had to hide the package under the bed--presently it was _Telltale Heart_ing her, the sounds of the Beatles playing louder and louder in her head. She was eager for Tristan to enter the bathroom.

It was only when she heard the water running that Rory retrieved Logan's package from under her bed. Luckily, Tristan took outrageously long showers—thirty minutes at least.

She glanced at the door. They'd been sharing hotel rooms for three months. Rory had slept with him the day after her phone fight with Lane. She hadn't spoken to her best friend since. She really hadn't wanted to admit that the drummer had been right.

Their first time had been terrible—for Rory, anyway. She hoped Tristan hadn't realized just how awful she'd felt about it.

Rory had done her best to ignore the discomfort of having his hands all over her. Those weren't the hands she'd grown so accustomed to. She was so used to Logan's touch, Logan's kisses, Logan's methods. Tristan had a totally different game plan in the bedroom. It wasn't bad, it just wasn't…Logan.

Tristan's touch seemed alien—those foreign bodies made her tense and ill-at-ease. Rory had fought the urge to recoil, and hiding that inner struggle from him had been difficult.

It hadn't been his fault.

Rory hadn't cried, and for that she was proud. Tristan really did seem oblivious to her turmoil. Though after the deed, he was oblivious to everything. He'd gone straight to sleep. This man really was useless after sex. He always put forth all his energy, and afterwards he couldn't help but nod off immediately.

Rory had felt slightly empty after that first time. Only slightly. Post-coital, Logan was usually holding her tight, still kissing and caressing her. Tristan wasn't conscious.

He had been her first lover after Logan. Only the third person she'd had sex with in her whole life. She hadn't expected a perfect experience; that just wasn't a possibility. But it would get better…

And it did. Over the last three months Rory had really worked to push Logan out of her mind and focus on Tristan. He really did know what he was doing in bed, and she always came. It was only afterwards that she felt he was slightly inadequate.

Not that it was his fault…

She found herslef thinking that more often that not.

The sound of Tristan's voice belting out _Singing in the Rain_ from the shower hit Rory's ears. He always sang in the shower. Rory smiled grimly. At least she was making progress.

So was this package going to set her back?

Would Tristan be angry if he found out?

Was Tristan even a factor in what went on with her relationship with Logan? This gift was strictly platonic. And she'd even mentioned her boyfriend in the note.

Rory really wished she could make a Pro/Con list. But, alas, Tristan had seized her computer and all writing materials when they'd arrived at the hotel—as he always did.

To send or not to send? she asked herself again.

Rory glanced at the bathroom door again, picked up the cardboard box, and made her way to the public mailbox she'd seen out front.


	7. That Sly Come Hither Stare

**AN: Hey! Thanks so much to those of you who review—I put some effort into this thing, and I really appreciate it when you tell me what you think. **

_**San Francisco**_

_We all live in a yellow submarine,  
Yellow submarine, yellow submarine,  
We all live in a yellow submarine,  
Yellow submarine, yellow submarine,_

_And our friends are all aboard,  
Many more of them live next door,  
And the band begins to play._

_We all live in a yellow submarine,  
Yellow submarine, yellow submarine,  
We all live in a yellow submarine,  
Yellow submarine, yellow submarine_

Logan hit the snooze button of his alarm and stared silently at the ceiling. He would wait for the next alarm with impatience, eagerly anticipating the familiar tune he heard every day.

The arms around him seemed tight and restrictive. Grace's head lay motionless on his chest, weighing him down. Her golden hair was splayed across his neck and shoulder.

His eyes were drawn to the window. The gray sky filled the room with a sort of unnatural light, full of gloom and solemnity. It was raining lightly, as it had been for the past week. No snow, even in January. Not in San Francisco.

That didn't keep the room from being chilled by the rain.

The sound of the trickling rain hitting the window had a soothing quality to it, and Logan didn't feel quite as anchored to his bed as he usually did.

He looked down at the girl asleep on top of him and narrowed his eyes, as if inspecting her.

Why'd she have to be so pretty?

Even in sleep she was gorgeous. She seemed so peaceful, so angelic. Her lips were curled up in a small smile.

He was not warmed by her body covering him. If anything, it made him feel colder. Empty.

He always felt a gut-wrenching cocktail of emptiness, guilt, disgust, and a sort of muted longing when he was with her. For he longed to be the boyfriend she thought he was. He longed to love her.

He took a slow, deep breath and watched as his girlfriend's head rose and fell with the expansion and contraction of his lungs.

_We all live in a yellow submarine,  
Yellow submarine, yellow submarine,  
We all live in a yellow submarine,  
Yellow submarine, yellow submarine,_

_And our friends are all aboard,  
Many more of them live next door,  
And the band begins to play._

_We all live in a yellow submarine,  
Yellow submarine, yellow submarine,  
We all live in a yellow submarine,  
Yellow submarine, yellow submarine_

He hit snooze again. For some reason Grace never stirred when his alarm went off.

Logan wondered at the implications of this. A gift from his ex wouldn't do its job for his current girlfriend.

Grace had asked him to keep using his old clock, but he had assured her he'd just wake her up himself.

When asked why the damn clock was so important he'd explained that any gift from Colin was meant to be used.

That wasn't really a lie...he hadn't right out said the clock was from Colin McCrae...of course, he sure hadn't admitted it was from Rory.

The miniature submarine certainly caused him heartache.

Instead of removing Rory from his thoughts as he'd been on track to do before November 5th, he couldn't help but think of her each morning as he woke.

And each morning as he woke he couldn't deny the thoughts that constantly whispered at the back of his head.

He still wasn't over her.

He hadn't seen Rory since the end of May last year.

And he had a girlfriend who loved him.

And said girlfriend was under the impression that he reciprocated that love.

And it was his fault.

The terrible thing was that Rory had reached out to him twice. And he hadn't responded. Somehow he'd had enough will power over the months to keep from dialing her number.

In his skewed way of thinking, contacting Rory would be hurting Grace, who had done nothing wrong. Yet, deep down, he knew that being with her and misleading her about his feelings was much worse.

Logan's gaze drifted involuntarily to the one picture atop his bedside table that stole his attention every day.

She probably looked different. It had been eight months since he'd seen her, a lot longer than that since this picture had been taken.

Was her hair shorter? Longer? Was her skin still as clear and soft? Did she grow taller? Had she been scarred in some sort of horrific accident? He had no way of knowing…

Or was she exactly as she had been when this picture was taken?

_We all live in a yellow submarine,  
Yellow submarine--_

Logan knew he had to get out of bed this time. He was needed at the paper.

He carefully unwrapped himself from Grace. He planned on waking her just before he had to leave. Less time for small talk that way. Sure she'd chastise him for not waking her--she liked to make them breakfast to share--but he'd rather not feel like the cruel, heartless bastard taking advantage of her that he really was. He had plenty of time for that after 6 A.M.

Logan made his way to the bathroom, rubbing a hand over his face. As he brushed his teeth his thoughts turned to work.

This upcoming feature was something that would capture San Francisco's attention. The article's subject would inevitably draw thousands to read it, considering the location. The piece had to be great.

In a week, when the Illinois senator arrived to speak at a rally and later with the press, all the local papers would be clamoring to put out the best article. His paper would have to go above and beyond. The writer of this particular piece would have to be able to get in some great questions over that passel of dolts the man had touring around with him. That wouldn't be too tough considering the circumstances. The best writer in the city would be assigned to this beat.

Logan Huntzberger would be reporting on Barack Obama.

_**

* * *

**_

_**A Stop on the Bus Route**_

Rory grinned.

Best. Episode. Ever.

Relapse after two months! She loved when they relapsed.

She didn't think she'd ever get tired of A&E's _Intervention_. There was nothing better than watching crack induced bar fights coupled with those awkward family confrontations.

Tristan had told her she was in desperate need of an _Intervention _intervention. He was probably right—she got way too much pleasure out of this show.

She turned off the TV and was met with the sound of the shower and Tristan singing the Beach Boys' _Kokomo _at the top of his lungs. She got up and shut the door to the bathroom with a laugh.

Just as Rory was settling down on the large bed for a nap, there was a knock at the door. She got up with a groan.

"Greg, I am not moving into Helen's room! Tristan and I are adults. We are in a relationship! We have sex!" She opened the door, ready to chew out her fellow reporter some more for coming back to bother them.

"Well, that's what every mother wants to hear when she hasn't seen her daughter since Thanksgiving."

"MOM!"

Rory catapulted herself into her mother's arms. After a great deal of laughing and jumping the two separated and Rory looked skeptically at Lorelai Gilmore.

"Explain yourself," she commanded.

"Well seeing as that slave driver Barack—hmm, you think calling him a slave driver is alright? I mean his dad's from Kenya, so no foul there. And his mother's white. So really he could have—"

"Mom!"

"Seeing as Barack wouldn't even let you guys off for Christmas—"

"Mom, Barack's not my employer. I work for the internet company, remember? Barack didn't take a break from campaigning on Christmas, and my boss didn't want me to, either."

"So Hugo's the slave driver?"

"He needs a journalist who's dedicated, and I am nothing if not dedicated."

"There's dedicated, and there's missing Christmas. _Christmas!_"

"Oh, hush. We talked on the phone for three hours that day. I recall you singing a large number of your favorite dirty carols and ordering me to integrate as many as I could into my next article."

"Nice job with that, by the way. It was hilarious. However, I must have missed the part where you cited me as your inspiration and all time favorite muse."

"Editing," Rory said with a shrug and a smile.

"Anyway, I came to see my darling daughter with the hope that she would make enough time for her marvelous mother and at least one cup of coffee."

"I think that can be worked out."

"Great!" It was at that point that Lorelai first heard the shower running and the faint sound of what sounded like the bellow of an injured bull. She raised an eyebrow and nodded toward the bathroom door. "That Tristan in there?"

Rory couldn't help but blush. This _was_ her mother. "Yes," she murmured.

Lorelai didn't altogether approve of this boy. At first she had wanted him to be Rory's rebound—her daughter had certainly had a crush on the kid in high school. But this guy was looking for a relationship. She knew Rory. And Rory couldn't have been ready for that so soon. Lorelai felt he must have pushed the girl into it, maybe unintentionally, but that wasn't the point.

She turned back to her daughter. "How are you… how are you coping?"

This was a conversation they hadn't really had before Rory had left for this job. It had been eight months; Lorelai wanted to know just how the girl felt about moving on from Logan.

For lack of other furniture, the pair sat down on the bed.

"A little late, aren't you, Mom?"

"I blame the senility that kicked in with that whole fortieth birthday thing, which you also missed. So tell me about the wallowing. You still wallowing?"

"Oh, of course. I'm sitting around blasting Boyz II Men and comparing my relationship with Logan to _The Way We Were_." Her playful tone changed. "You know, it IS a lot like _The Way We Were._"

"No, no it's not. You aren't a Communist Jew with a baby, Logan's not a struggling screen writer, and he may be cute, but sorry, he's no Robert Redford."

Rory was distractedly looking off into space. She hadn't heard her mother.

"Snap out of it!" Lorelai exclaimed, slapping the back of her daughter's head.

"Hey! _Waterworld_ tanked for a reason, you know!"

It was at that point that Tristan emerged from the bathroom with a towel around his waist, still singing.

"_That sly come hither stare_—Oh." He stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of his girlfriend, beat red, and his girlfriend's mother, wearing a huge smirk.

"Sinatra fan, huh?"

Rory sighed; her mother wasn't going to make this easy.

"Well, all I have to say is…way to go, Rory!" She looked him up and down. "He's in pretty good shape!"

That was no lie. Tristan's lean, well-toned body made every woman that came in contact with the couple hate Rory with passion.

"Hi." Tristan finally spoke up, a sheepish grin on his face.

"So you're the guy shtupping my daughter?"

He laughed, instantly more comfortable with the woman. He leaned forward, a mischievous look on his face. "I never shtup and tell. Sorry abou—"

Tristan was interrupted by the hotel door swinging open and a short bespectacled man barging into the room.

"Greg!" Rory fumed.

"Oh, _goodness_!" he said, bringing his hands to his face.

"What are you doing? How did you get in here?" Tristan demanded.

"I was given the master key." He removed his hands from his face and held up a key card. "And it's a good thing, too. What is this?" he seethed, taking in Tristan's scantily clad form and the two women on the bed. "Some kind of sex orgy?"

"What?!" Rory couldn't believe this guy.

He held up his Bible. "Do you even know what this is? Oh, you three sinners shall feel the wrath of God!" He pulled out his cell phone. "I'm calling my pastor."

"Stop right there!" Rory commanded. "Tristan, get dressed."

The blond man gave a disgusted look Greg, grabbed his suitcase, and returned to the bathroom.

"Greg, this is my mother. The three of us were _talk_—you know what? I don't have to explain anything to you! You _cannot_ just intrude like that!"

"Your mother? I find that very hard to believe. She doesn't look a day over thirty."

"I like this guy!" Lorelai said with a big smile.

"I'm getting out of this…this harlot house immediately."

Rory sighed. "Greg?"

He turned from the door to look at her.

"Why did you come here in the first place?"

He scowled at her. "Fred sent me out to let everyone know our next few stops. I'll have to thank him later; I had no idea the task would turn into this display of wretchedness."

"Where are we going?"

"This week we've got Carson City, Sacramento, Oakland, and San Francisco."

Lorelai's eyes immediately snapped to her daughter. "What was that last one?"

"San Francisco," Greg said curtly as he left the room.

Rory felt her heart stop.

Logan was in San Francisco.

* * *

**AN: This was sort of a transition chapter...I promise the next one will be much beefier. Maybe even some Rogan? I promise it'll happen sometime within the next ten chapters...haha, I kid...I think...**


	8. Richard Gere in a Derby Hat

_**The Tour Bus**_

Rory bit her lip and balled her hands into fists, trying to keep from nervously twiddling her thumbs.

This was silly. There wasn't even reason to think Logan would be at this press conference. He was the vice-president of the Huntzberger Publishing Group. He didn't have time to report anymore. Politicians came to San Francisco all the time; he couldn't be bothered to make an appearance at _every_ speaking engagement.

She would not be encountering her ex-boyfriend today.

This knowledge did nothing to subdue the butterflies rapidly gaining wingspan in her stomach.

And it was still another hour and forty-five minutes before they arrived at their destination. She couldn't imagine how she'd feel when they were actually _in_ Logan's city of residence.

She didn't even have Tristan to distract her. He was snoring lightly in the seat to her left. She ran her eyes up and down his form.

What would she tell him if Logan _was_ at the press conference? Everything? Nothing?

If Logan did show up, what was she planning to do? Hide? Talk to him? Jump into his arms and wrap her legs around his waist? She honestly had no idea.

"Hey!" she grumbled angrily. In surveying her boyfriend she had sighted the bag of pretzels half hidden in his jacket pocket.

He'd been holding out on her.

Hmmm, how to extract the goods without waking him? This would take some serious skill. Luckily, when snack food was on the line, Rory became especially adept in thievery.

With her eyes glued to Tristan's face watching for any sign of movement, Rory silently reached across his chest to his left side. He sniffed loudly and she paused, ready to pull back and look preoccupied with her article if need be. She let out a breath—false alarm.

Rory's fingers closed around the lip of the bag and, with painful slowness, she extracted the pretzels from their once secure home. She looked at Tristan with pity in her eyes. Trying to keep junk food for oneself when consorting with a Gilmore was pointless.

She opened the bag as silently as she could, eyeing the man next to her all the while. Not a peep—except for the usual snores.

Success!

Rory reached her hand into the bag only to feel something heavy weigh down her shoulder. She stiffened.

Foiled!

She was already preparing her it's-not-my-fault-and-don't-you-want-me-to-have-these-anyway-face when she realized that it was Tristan's head that had come to reside on her shoulder. He had slumped sideways in sleep. He was now snoring into her neck.

Rory smiled. It was followed immediately by a frown.

"Oh," she breathed, trying to protest. But it was too late. The memory was already flooding back.

She'd awoken in a strange place; normally this would have alarmed her, but she'd felt the comforting presence of her boyfriend at her side. His head had rested on her shoulder, his even breathing lightly tickling her ear.

They'd been sitting upright in a row of chairs, and as Rory had gained her bearings she'd remembered where they were and why.

The hospital. Her grandfather's heart attack.

Logan had taken a helicopter to get to her. He'd been at her side all night. The last thing she'd remembered was him going off in search of blankets at three in the morning. She'd fallen asleep while he'd been gone and upon his return he'd fallen asleep next to her.

Rory'd carefully rolled her neck, trying to shake some of her tension without waking Logan. Sleeping at that angle had left her sore.

Rory had checked the clock to see the time. 7:00 A.M.

She'd attempted to shift into a more comfortable position with her head atop her boyfriend's, but she hadn't had much success.

It had been at that point that she'd noticed what lay on her lap. A picture of Richard Gere cut out of a newspaper. A derby hat had been drawn in pen onto his head.

She'd had no idea what it was doing there. It had been so absurd.

Waking up to a derby-hat-wearing Richard Gere in her lap—the more she'd thought about it, the more she'd found it absolutely hilarious, though sleep deprivation had probably played a role in that.

She'd tried to keep from laughing, but the more she'd attempted to contain her laughter, the funnier the situation had seemed. Her body had shaken as she'd finally erupted in a fit of giggles.

Logan had raised his head from her shoulder as he'd awoken. She'd instantly missed the loss of contact, but that didn't keep her chuckles at bay. He'd rubbed his hand over his face and looked at her through narrowed (and heavy-lidded) eyes.

"Wha—mph—What is it?"

His groggy inquiry had only set Rory to harder laughter. The giddiness she'd been experiencing had been refreshing—worry for her grandpa had weighed on her heavily over the last twenty-four hours.

"What—" she'd barely been able to get the words out through her giggles. "What _is_ this?"

She had held up the clipping.

He'd smiled, her laughter was infectious.

"I drew that last night."

Her mouth had hung open for a second as she'd contemplated his answer—as if it had been obvious. "_Why_?"

He'd been chuckling along with her at that point. "To cheer you up."

Rory had clutched her stomach as she'd been overwhelmed with guffaws. "Why would—why would _Richard Gere_ in a _derby hat_ cheer me up?"

He shook his head, laughing harder now. "I… I don't know…"

"This makes _no_ sense!" She'd been downright howling at that point.

"It's—it's working, isn't it?"

"A derby hat! Why a _derby hat_?" her voice was filled with jollity.

"Well, my astronaut helmets always come out lopsided."

Her body had shaken as she'd laughed so hard no longer made noise. Tears had been streaming down her cheeks.

"I—I just—" Rory had almost completely lost her voice now for lack of air from her outburst. "I wake up. And—and there's Richard Gere staring up at me. And he's wearing—and he's wearing this—_hat_."

Now they were both laughing hysterically. Rory had begun to hiccup and that had sent them into another fit.

It had only been the arrival of Emily Gilmore that had silenced them. She hadn't been particularly amused to see the pair so full of mirth at the hospital where her husband was being treated. Rory had quickly wiped at her eyes and risen to greet her grandmother properly.

After accompanying her grandma into her grandpa's room to see him resting peacefully, Rory had returned to find Logan waiting with two steaming cups of coffee.

"I love you."

"You talking to me or the coffee?"

"Both. My love is all encompassing."

She took a minute to savor her drink; coffee was her favorite part of mornings.

Logan held up the picture, inspecting it. "You know, I only half-remember making this thing. I'd gone off to look for blankets, but couldn't come up with any. I found a stack of newspapers and figured we could use those for warmth if absolutely necessary. But then I saw this picture. And there was a pen just _lying there_ at the nurse's station. When I came back you were already asleep, so I left it for you."

"Why a derby hat? Usually picture defiling involves eye patches, Hitler mustaches, and blackened teeth. And I still don't understand why you thought it would cheer me up."

"It all made sense at 3:00 A.M., I swear."

"Well, it _did_ cheer me up."

She smiled as he put his arm around her.

"Have you ever seen Richard Gere in a derby hat?" she asked.

"Not that I can remember."

"Hmmm…I wonder if he's ever worn one—in a movie or otherwise."

"Well, if so, you already know what he'd look like. That's a damn good drawing. One would think he was really wearing a hat."

"I appreciate your ability. If anyone ever needed a derby hat on the _Mona Lisa_, they'd call you right away."

"Damn straight."

He'd pulled her closer and she'd rested her head on his shoulder this time. She hadn't known how he'd been able to provide such a sense of security, of comfort. It had seemed to her that whatever ended up happening with Richard Gilmore, she would be able to get through it. With Logan. She'd sighed contentedly as he'd silently brought his lips to her forehead…

Tristan grunted on Rory's shoulder. She bit her lip for what must have been the hundredth time.

After that morning at the hospital, every time she and Logan had heard anything about Richard Gere they had immediately informed each other—no matter where they were or what they were doing. She loved that they could keep a joke running that long and both continue to find it funny.

Over the past few months she couldn't tell him any of her Richard Gere news… not that she got much out on the road.

But maybe today…

She really needed to stop thinking about this. She probably wouldn't see Logan while she was in town. And even if she did…

He'd forgotten her. Or, at least, he'd stopped caring for her. He hadn't responded to her late night call or her Guy Fawkes Day gift. He was still dating could-be-model Grace Talbot (she'd confirmed that after flipping through the latest _Star Magazine_). And, if he got her note, he knew she was dating Tristan.

The man next to her shifted and leaned the other way in his sleep, removing his head from her shoulder. She was happy to have the weight off.

In search of a real distraction, Rory turned to look out the window.

California was _beautiful._ She couldn't believe she'd never been. This tour got her all over the country, it provided a wealth of good stories to tell her family and friends, and it supplied her with a great deal of experience. She loved this job.

The bright blue sky and vivid greens of the landscape were captivating. She could stare out at this forever.

To think she could have lived here. With him. To think she could have lived anywhere with him. _Logan_.

She chuckled humorlessly to herself as a thought came to mind. California was like the other woman. First Jess had run off and left her without a word to be here. And then Logan's need to move to this state had driven him to act brashly, which had led to their break-up.

California, what a boyfriend-stealing bitch. She scowled out the window at what, just a second ago, she'd considered one of the most stunning places she'd ever seen.

Rory checked her watch. An hour and thirty-two minutes until the bus arrived in San Francisco.

* * *

_**San Francisco**_

Rory was incensed. The press conference had just ended, and Logan had been a no-show. Sure, she had told herself he wouldn't be there…but he was _supposed_ to be there.

Wasn't he a newspaper mogul?

Wouldn't he _want _to come to this thing himself?

Or was he too important even for Obama?

_Where was he?_

When Rory had entered the building, she had immediately scanned the room for his tousled blond hair and his well-proportioned form. But there had been no sign of him. She had silently fumed to herself throughout the event, and she hadn't asked a single question or taken down a sentence of notes.

Rory's unusual behavior did not go unnoticed by Tristan.

"I can't believe Hilary showed up in the middle of the press conference like that. No one expected it. And when she started cutting Barack off to answer questions…"

"She was_ here_?"

He smirked. "No."

"Not funny."

"What's going on with you? I've never seen you not taking notes when Barack is _spoken of_. Not to mention when he's actually in the room responding to reporters. I mean, you took notes that time we met his former _suit supplier_ in that café."

"I—I'm just not feeling well, I guess."

He looked at her with eyes full of concern—okay now she really did feel bad.

"Maybe you should go straight to the hotel and lie down. No need to meet my old Cornell cronies if you aren't feeling well."

"Maybe you're right."

"I am right." He kissed her lightly on the lips. "Go on now."

"Have a good time. Remember, we're leaving early tomorrow morning. Don't get too wasted."

"Me? Never!"

They parted ways. Rory started walking toward their hotel but then veered off course when she spied a Starbucks on the corner.

As she sat with her venti white mocha, she came to a decision.

Logan wasn't allowed to not show up. Not when she would only be in the area until tomorrow.

So what if he didn't _actually_ know she was there?

She deserved ten minutes with him. She deserved to see that man after such a long time apart.

Rory's mind was made up.

She was going to find Logan.

**

* * *

**Rory swallowed as the doors of the elevator opened to the eighth floor—the floor occupied by the Huntzberger Publishing Group. 

She'd been lucky in finding the place. The first person she'd asked on the street knew just where it was. And the impressive building was within walking distance.

She had tracked him down. Now she just had to…to what? Rory had decided to go to Logan. She hadn't given any thought to what she would do or say when she got to him.

She just wanted to see him. To see how he'd changed. And she ached to speak with him. To banter as they once had. To have things like they were, if even for a moment.

But how could things be like they were? It was impossible…

Rory took a deep breath and approached the receptionist's desk. She had dark hair and bright green eyes. She was classically pretty, with an open, fresh face.

And Logan saw her _every_ morning as he came in to work.

Rory already hated her.

"Hi, I'm looking for Logan Huntzberger."

"Oh, I'm sorry. He's not here."

"Wh—what?"

"He's not in the office."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Do you know when he'll be back?"

"All I know is that he isn't here, honey."

Honey? They were roughly the same age! Rory tried not to scowl. She needed this lady on her side.

"Do you mind if I wait for him?"

"Sure, but I make no guarantee that Mr. Huntzberger will be in at all today."

"Okay."

She took a seat in one of the chairs lining the wall. This was very reminiscent of her days trying to get a job at the Stamford Gazette. She craned her neck to see into the newsroom. She missed the hustle and bustle of a "real" paper. Writing for the internet company made her feel disconnected; the glamour of it all was absent.

It must be nice to work here…

"Excuse me."

The man's words interrupted Rory's thoughts of a sitcom-like existence where she and Logan worked at the same office. Oh the crazy misunderstandings and wacky quarrels and one-liners that would have abounded…

"Jenny over there told me you were looking for Logan. I'm Dale Gardner, the editor. Anything I can do for you, or is your presence Huntzberger specific?"

The man before her was in his mid to late thirties with red hair and dark eyes. He looked friendly enough.

"Oh, well…it's—um Huntzberger-specific. Thanks."

"It's strange; you've picked the one day to come looking for him that Logan's not in the office. That guy's here more than he's not. He's never taken a sick day or a vacation."

"Well, he never was prone to illness…"

His eyes crinkled a little in surprise. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."

Rory panicked. She didn't want Logan to find out she was there before she saw him. Otherwise he could turn her away. And if they weren't able to meet up today, she didn't want him to know she'd sought him out.

"Uh, Tookie. Tookie Clothespin." Rory cringed—it had been the first name that came to mind.

"Nice to meet you…Tookie. How do you know Logan?"

"School. We knew each other at Yale. I just wanted to drop in and say hello."

"Right. Well, I need to get back to work, but feel free to look around while you wait. I can't believe Logan would stay out of the office all day."

"I'll do that. Thanks, Dale."

Dale. Doyle. Dale. Doyle. Dale. Doyle.

She smiled to herself. Maybe the similarity in names would be the first thing she'd talk to Logan about when and if he showed up. He couldn't call her a heart-breaking life-ruiner if he was preoccupied with saying both editors' names together like that. Of course, he probably wouldn't find the parallel as humorous as she did.

Eager to move around and expend some of her nervous energy, Rory did as Dale suggested and began to walk around the floor.

It was beautiful—the perfect habitat for a true journalist. It was airy, with lots of space to get around each other. The cubicle walls were short so communication with other writers would be easier. All the equipment was of the highest quality.

There weren't many people around—they were probably all out on assignment, tracking down leads, really finding the news.

Rory missed the diversity of being a regular reporter. Now her topic was always the same. Though she was interested in politics, writing only about Barack and his campaign got tedious. Sure, she wrote a little on the side, for fun, but that wasn't the same. She yearned to go out and find a story all her own.

The atmosphere of the place was perfect—not too serious, but definitely…work-conducive. Rory made her way to the large windows lining one wall. The view was spectacular. She wondered how distracting it must be. If she were a reporter here, she'd have to spend at least thirty minutes a day stationed here, taking in the city.

She reluctantly pulled herself away and wandered into the break room. There she poured herself a cup of coffee and sipped it quietly, lost in thought.

She felt like Lizzie Bennett at Pemberly, touring the estate of the man she loved without his knowledge. Although in _Pride and Prejudice_, he'd shown up, they'd spent the day in each other's company, and, in the conclusion, had ended up together.

So where was Logan?

_Where was her Mr. Darcy?_

Certainly not here. Not yet, anyway.

As Rory finished her coffee, she spied the name engraved on the door of the large corner office across the floor. Logan's office.

Should she go in and look around? Would that be overstepping her bounds?

She knew she probably shouldn't do it. But she was curious about Logan's life here. She wanted to see where he apparently spent so much of his time. She also wanted to get the lay of the room. If Logan ever arrived, she figured they'd talk in his office. It would be nice to be somewhat comfortable in her surroundings.

Rory walked quickly to the office, periodically looking over her shoulder to see if anyone would stand up, point a finger at her, and order her to cease and desist. When she reached the door she paused, suddenly anxious again. This was his office. It was private. It was—oh to hell with it. Rory squared her shoulders and turned the knob.

"Hello."

Rory was surprised to find herself facing another woman at another large reception-type desk. She spotted a door behind and to the left of the desk. Was Logan's office behind that door or would another woman be waiting at yet another desk? Was there a mile-long-line of women to defer visitors before they could make their way to the vice-president?

Another line of women to Logan? Rory didn't linger on the thought, for the woman, a kindly-grandmother-type whose name plate read _Molly James,_ had greeted her for a second time.

"Oh, sorry. Hi. I—I was just looking for Logan."

"I apologize, sweetie, he won't be in today. I'm his secretary, I can take your name and have him get back to you if you'd like."

"He won't be in _at all_ today?"

"No."

Rory's face fell. The other woman took her disappointment the wrong way.

"Honey, listen… Mr. Huntzberger has a steady girlfriend. He's happy. You should go home and find someone else to bat those big lashes at."

Rory racked her brain, but couldn't seem to come up with words of any kind. She had lost the power of speech.

After a few seconds of blank staring with her mouth hanging open, Rory was able to sputter, "W—will he be in the office tomorrow morning? Early?"

Molly sighed. "Mr. Huntzberger called this morning to inform me that he is traveling on business and doesn't know himself when he'll be back."

"Oh." He'd left _that morning_. She was too late. "I'll just go then."

Rory raced out of the office, not wanting to remain in his domain a second longer than she had to.

God, she felt like such an idiot. She'd reached out to him _twice_ already. Now she'd fucking shown up at his office, and he was gone. Well, this was her last time.

She wouldn't subject herself to this pain, this rejection, this wrenching ache in her gut ever again. She couldn't let herself be vulnerable to him ever again.

Rory was desperately trying to hold back tears as she boarded the empty elevator.

At least now she knew.

They weren't meant to be.

_**

* * *

**_Today would be a good day. A great day. Logan was really looking forward to reporting again, and he was eager to hear what Barack Obama had to say. In the past months he'd been so busy with the paper—the side not often thought of, the _business_ of the paper—the sales, the ad space, all financial aspects. 

Today was already starting out remarkably well. He'd been able to sleep in, his shower was back in working order, and the hall where he would be reporting today was within walking distance of his apartment (and of work in case he decided to stop by after the press conference).

Presently, he was on his way to the event. The sun was shining and there was a spring in his step.

Logan looked around his fair city. He had really grown to love it here. He could foresee himself living in San Francisco for the rest—

He stopped dead in his tracks.

No.

It couldn't be.

Sure, he'd seen plenty of celebrities in his time. Especially since he'd moved to San Francisco. The famous were commonplace here.

But he'd never seen _this_ celebrity. And he'd never seen this celebrity wearing _that_.

Richard Gere.

Richard Gere in a derby hat.

Richard Gere in a derby hat walking down the sidewalk.

He experienced a pang of intense emotion that he was powerless to fight. His throat seemed to close up and his whole body went cold.

It was as if the whole outside world had been cut off to him. All but Richard Gere, his hat, and _her_.

_Rory_.

Logan almost wanted to cry.

And laugh.

And scream at the top of his lungs.

And turn around, get on a plane, and go to Connecticut.

He'd do it.

Someone else could cover Obama.

He was going to Rory.

_**

* * *

**_**AN: Know what makes me happy and only takes a few seconds? Reviewing : )**


	9. Well, Shit

**AN: Who knew listing the characters in the story info was so important to getting this thing read? I really enjoyed everyone's reviews and have even made some revisions because of them. Oh, and sorry about the time this took—I usually try to crank a chapter out once a week, but summer's over and from now on my updates will probably be a little more spread out. I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

_**Stars Hollow**_

Logan pulled the dilapidated rental car up to the driveway and put it in park. He rubbed his face wearily.

Finally.

_Finally._

His day had been torturous. Damn Honor for taking the private jet to Venice. He'd been in such a rush to get to Rory that he'd taken the first flight out he could get.

He had been seated—and it would be catastrophic if Shira heard—in coach. Logan had only flown economy twice in his life—once when they'd _had_ to get Finn out of Germany before the authorities caught up and once when Colin was trying to pick up the coach stewardess on the way to Hawaii. His friend had struck out miserably. Logan, however, had gotten a quickie from her in the tiny bathroom.

Not flying first class didn't bother him. Layovers and delays did. With the scheduled stop in Chicago factored in, Logan should have arrived in Hartford around 9 PM (with the time difference). That was three hours ago. He was stiff from flying, irritable fromhunger,and stressed from the mounting anxiety at seeing her after all this time.

Logan stretched his tired muscles. He'd taken the car closest to the Hertz rental station and high-tailed it here—to Stars Hollow, a place he'd only been a handful of times. It seemed strange to him, since Rory was so connected to this small town, that he hadn't become more acquainted with the place. If…if he ever got a chance, he'd spend more time in here—if only to show that he cared for everything she cared for.

He stood silently on the porch of Rory's house—Rory's _home_—mentally preparing himself for the various possible outcomes of ringing her doorbell.

Rory could open the door, smile brilliantly, take his hand, and drag him into her bedroom for some mind blowing I-missed-you-so-let's-get-back-together-sex.

Rory could open the door, start to cry, lead him to the kitchen where they could try to hash out their issues and come to no real resolutions, and then he'd go back to San Francisco defeated.

Rory could open the door, furrow her brow, and slam the door back in his face.

Lorelai could open the door and tell him to get the hell away from her house.

Lorelai could open the door and tell him Rory had moved to Sri Lanka with that Dean jerk who dumped her the night of the Richard and Emily's 'Rory auction.'

The house could be empty, and he could have to stand and wait on the stoop like a mendicant.

A stranger could answer the door and inform him that he had the wrong house and the police were on their way with large sticks and high-caliber firearms.

Personally, Logan preferred option number one. Not that his preferences would be taken into any consideration whatsoever.

He rolled his shoulders and unintentionally hopped up and down a few times, trying to prepare himself for whatever (whoever) he was faced with.

Okay, now or never.

It seemed to take his finger an hour to reach the doorbell. And then it was opened in a split second, which was startling considering the hour.

He was faced with a young girl with messy hair and glasses. She stared expectantly at him. Damn, he must have had the wrong house. Or maybe they'd moved.

Logan cleared his throat.

"Is—isn't this the Gilmore house?"

"Well, I guess that depends on what you mean by that. I'm a Nardini. Well, a Nardini-Danes, really. My dad's a Danes, too. So really there are more Danes here than Gilmores, even though I'm just a half. Well actually, I still go by Nardini only…but the blood's still half Danes. Anyway, the majority's with the Danes name. So it could be perceived as the Danes house. Although, I'll be leaving when MLK weekend ends, and it'll return to one Gilmore and one Danes, in which case I guess you could call it either."

It was late, he was exhausted, and Logan already hated the girl standing before him.

"Does _Rory Gilmore_ live here?" He tried not to sound as exasperated as he was. He really didn't want some sort of long, rambling, quickly spoken response. 'Yes' or 'No.'

Preferably 'Yes.'

The girl opened her mouth to answer but was cut off by a familiar voice from within the house.

"April? Who's at the door? I will not stand for a movie night interruption this long for anything but…_Logan_?" Lorelai had come up behind April and was taken aback to see her daughter's ex at her doorstep.

"Lorelai." He greeted quietly.

"April go start _The Big Lebowski_ up again."

"But you'll miss—"

"Kid, I could recite that movie line for line with my hair on fire and an axe murderer chasing me. Get a move on—The Dude waits for no man." She watched the girl walk off and turned back to Logan.

Instead of inviting him in, Lorelai joined him on the porch, crossing her arms uncomfortably in front of her.

"Sorry to show up so late."

"Hey, no problem. We were up." Her face was serious.

"Is Rory here?" His voice was strained. He had been waiting so long…

"Rory? Rory hasn't lived here for months."

His face sank. For a second he looked utterly defeated.

Even Lorelai felt for the poor guy.

Logan quickly regained his resolve. He hadn't come this far for nothing. A renewed sense of purpose filled his voice.

"Where is she?" He would go anywhere.

Lorelai crumpled her brow. She didn't know what to do. She liked Tristan—he treated Rory well, and he seemed to really care for her.

Should she tell Logan her daughter's whereabouts? Would Rory be angry if she found out Lorelai had disclosed such information to the man she rejected?

And then, unbidden, the Valentine's Day weekend spent at Martha's Vineyard surfaced in Lorelai's mind. The easy flow the two had had together, the natural routine they'd established. The pair had seemed much more functional than she and Luke at the time—now even.

She and Rory had been sitting together in the kitchen. Luke and Logan had just left.

"It's weird, you know?" Rory had asked.

"What's weird?"

"I don't know, it just hit me. These could be the ones."

"The ones?"

"The ones. You know?"

The look on Rory's face that night had scared Lorelai deeply. She had never fully realized just how much her daughter loved Logan Huntzberger.

And since then she had tried her best to pretend she was okay with it all. But she wasn't. Lorelai didn't want to lose her daughter to Logan. If anyone were to steal Rory away, it would be this kid.

She'd tried to keep Rory from knowing her fears, but Lorelai had been unable to keep from influencing her best friend. A subtle change in her voice or furrow of her brow when Logan was mentioned was subconsciously picked up by Rory. There was no way she didn't know Lorelai was unsupportive of the relationship.

And Lorelai might as well have screamed not to marry Logan in Rory's ear when she refused to give her advice on her engagement proposal.

But Lorelai had been alone then herself. She'd been selfish. She'd thought of her own happiness before her daughter's. Logan would make her happy.

What about Tristan? He seemed to be truly caught up in Rory. Would he do just as nicely as the other rich blond? He could make Rory happy, too.

She considered the look on Rory's face when she had seen her with Tristan as compared to that day at the Vineyard. She considered the look on Logan's face right now.

Lorelai had to tell him.

"Last I heard," she let out a breath, "Rory was in San Francisco."

She didn't give him a chance to react.

"She's been covering Barack Obama—but you knew that right?"

His eyes widened and his mouth became a thin, tight line. Logan's body was numb. His mind didn't seem to be connected to the rest of him.

"You didn't know that, did you?"

He shook his head slightly.

"Well, shit." Lorelai couldn't believe he hadn't known. He and Rory really hadn't spoken in eight months. "I thought you at least knew…"

Logan felt a tingling start to form in his limbs. Rage hit him like a freight train, and he was suddenly spouting off a string of swears.

They had almost crossed paths. _Almost._ But then he'd had to waste a day flying across the country, _away_ from Rory Gilmore.

Logan paced back and forth quickly, fists clenched, ready to do some damage. His jaw was tight and his teeth gritted.

His head snapped up at Lorelai, and she was taken aback at the urgency his eyes held. His mood had shifted so swiftly, his whole being now gave off an aura of intensity.

"_Where to next_?"

"I—I think she said they'd be hitting L.A. tomorrow—today, I mean."

Adrenaline surged through his body. He was ready to take action, to scour Los Angeles until he found her. And when he did, the things he would do to her…

They'd make up for lost time and then some.

He turned to leave, beginning to run back to his car to make his way back to the airport. He had to get the earliest flight possible.

"Wait!" Lorelai called.

He jerked to a stop and looked to find the doorway empty. She'd withdrawn inside the house. Logan was impatient; Rory was thousands of miles away, and he needed to get to her.

Lorelai reemerged and handed Logan a large manila envelope.

He looked at her questioningly.

"You'll see. Now go. Go to Rory."

He didn't need to be told again.

_**

* * *

**_Logan fiddled with the knob of the airplane tray table. He was uneasy, in a strange state of frustration, fatigue, determination, restlessness, agitation, and anxiety. 

No joke, he would _murder_ his older sister for taking the jet. Maybe his mother had been right about coach all along. Or maybe this was one of those outliers—the type of horrible experience that only happened to a person once in his lifetime. Why did that time have to be _this_ time?

Logan, usually so well-kept, felt covered in grime. He was wearing the same suit as he'd set out in for the press conference the morning before. His clothing was crumpled and now had a strange smell to it. Or maybe that was Logan himself. He was unshaven, unshowered, and practically unrecognizable.

The frantic pace at which he'd been operating the past 24 hours had left him jittery as the plane had taken off. He'd been able to book a flight to LAX with only one short layover, but it hadn't left until 5:30 in the morning. He'd spent the night at the Hartford airport.

He was due to arrive in California at about 11:00 AM (Pacific time)—just over an hour from now. The long day of flying had left him alone with his thoughts.

When he had moved to London for work his heart had been ripped from him and left in Hartford, with Rory. When he'd gone to San Francisco, it had been different. Worse. He'd still had his heart with him—injured, diseased, rotted. Festering away and infecting every part of him.

He'd had to pretend everything was fine when his world was irrevocably destroyed.

At least in London he could talk to her, text her (a devilish grin came unwittingly to his face), and fly home for visits when he was able. In San Francisco, he'd been alone. Sure, he'd found someone to fill the void—make a pitiful attempt at it, anyway. But truly he'd been alone.

Would he find her, get rejected again, and have to face being alone another time?

God, he hoped not. It would break him beyond repair.

He'd be a useless lump of nothing.

And Mitchum just wouldn't find that acceptable. _Mitchum._ Logan had gotten a call from his father as he sat in the airport in Philadelphia for his layover.

"Logan, where the hell are you? I arrived last night only to be informed that my son was away 'on business' and didn't know when he'd be back."

"You're in San Francisco?"

"I told you last week that I'd be in to discuss our upcoming deal with _The_ _Messenger_."

"Damn. I apologize, Dad. It slipped my mind."

"Logan, you are the vice-president of the Huntzberger Publishing Group. You're supposed to be preparing to take the reigns for me when I retire. How can I trust you with our family's livelihood if you can't keep a _simple appointment_? You always have to go gallivanting off with your shit faced friends and your rash, dangerous ideas. You're out of college now. You're supposed to be _responsible_."

"Da—"

"_Not now_. I don't want to hear any of your sorry excuses. Logan, when are you going to get your act together? I thought I told you to get all of this out of your system right after I bought your company. You had a two week grace period to go fuck around and be the biggest jackass you wanted to be. And…"

At that point Logan had blocked out his father's furious lecture, as he had so often done as a kid.

Only one thing Mitchum had said had caught his attention.

Grace period. _Grace_ period. He had left San Francisco without a word to chase down another woman. She deserved better than that. She loved him.

When he'd returned his attention to his father, Mitchum was still ranting angrily.

"You are a monumental disappointment to me, Logan. I know I shouldn't be surprised by these little stunts, but this time…I really thought you'd changed—grown up. I guess I was wrong. Get your ass back here and—"

"_Dad_." The venom in his voice shut his father up. "I will be back in the office tomorrow."

"Oh, no you will no—"

"Tomorrow."

"I can't bel—"

"Fuck. You."

And with that he'd hung up. Sure it was juvenile, but at that point he didn't care. He needed to get his dad off the phone so he could call her. Call Grace and tell her… tell her it was all over. Even if he didn't reconcile with Rory… He could no longer allow himself to string Grace along. Doing it over the phone wouldn't be ideal—but there was no way he would let her go another second thinking all was well while he frantically sought someone else.

He'd dialed her number and held his breath as it rang. No answer. Voicemail. He'd sighed.

He could barely break up with her over the phone, he refused to do so through a message.

"Grace, it's Logan. I'm out of town. When I get back…we need to talk." He'd tried to say the words with a sense of gentle finality. He wanted to convey to her his real intent in a way that would let her prepare herself for what was to come. He would grant her the courtesy of ending things in person. She deserved as much.

Logan glanced at his watch. Forty-five minutes. And then he'd be in Los Angeles. He'd called his secretary and had her find out where Barack was to appear that day. He had about an hour after landing to get to Rory before the event started. That seemed unlikely, but he could always wait for her afterward, outside the building.

He tried to still his anxiously shaking foot, but it was no use. He was edgy, restless. Logan had only a notebook, a pencil, and a tape recorder—what he'd taken to interview Obama. No book, no ipod, he hadn't even had the rationale picked up a newspaper while he'd been grounded. He was too tense to sleep, though he needed it greatly. He'd dozed lightly at the airport, but it had been nothing substantial. He needed some sort of distraction, or he was sure he'd lose his mind.

Logan suddenly remembered the envelope Lorelai had given him. He removed it from his briefcase and slowly tore it open, suddenly apprehensive for an unknown reason.

He could only think of the paternity tests he'd seen being opened countless times on Maury. 'You _are_ the father.' Though he was fairly sure this envelope contained something else, he had no idea as to what. Lorelai had never really like him—what would she ever deign to give to him?

He peeked inside, and felt a wave of relief, of appreciation, of joy.

Articles. Articles written by Rory over the past months. He flipped through them excitedly, glancing at the titles. They weren't all about Barack—a wide variety of topics were covered. They didn't seem edited or quite ready for publication.

He chuckled to himself. Rory _would_ write on the side for fun.

Logan consumed them. Rory's style had only become more sophisticated, more in-depth, more encompassing, more engaging. He read quickly, savoring each piece.

He smiled widely after reading the opener of one of her political articles. She compared the Senate's recent actions to those of the stale antics seen only on old _Saved by the Bell_ reruns.

He couldn't help but remember Finn's 'Favorite Shows of Yore' party from a couple of years ago.

He and Rory had arrived amid a sea of Power Rangers, Ninja Turtles, and Smurfs.

A Captain Kangaroo costumed Finn had approached them immediately, a beer in hand and an angry look on his face.

"Mates, I'm afraid I can't allow you to stay. This is one of _my_ parties, after all. Everyone has to be in character!"

"We are in character," Rory had stated, amused that Finn couldn't tell.

"You look exactly the same."

"We're Zack and Kelly from _Saved by the Bell_."

Finn had squinted unbelievingly at them.

"Blond hair, brown eyes, giant phone," Logan had said, pointing to his face and holding up a large gray cell phone from the early 90's. "And I'm with a squeaky clean, blue-eyed brunette." He'd gestured to Rory.

"Well, it's great to know how much effort you put into it."

"Happy to oblige." Rory had smiled sweetly at the frustrated Australian.

"I hate you two. And, since I hate you, I won't waste another second that could be spent beer drinking or tail scouting to talk to you. Ta."

They'd shared bemused smiles and made their way to the bar. It was always fun to mess with Finn. And saving some time and money for the party had been an added bonus. Even without a costume, Rory had been the most beautiful woman in the room. Screw the guys who thought Rainbow Brite was more of knockout. He'd known better.

"Sir?"

He shook his head and looked up at the flight attendant.

"Sir, the plane will be landing in fifteen minutes. Please store those papers under the seat in front of you and raise the tray table to its upright and locked position."

Logan did as he was told and looked determinedly out the window at the city of Los Angeles below him.

He had never felt so close.

_**

* * *

**__**San Francisco**_

She would let Logan go now. After all this time, she would let him go. Missing him at his office had opened her eyes.

She would launch herself into a real, devoted relationship with Tristan Dugray. She felt she could finally make some progress in her relationship, in her life.

Presently, Rory was lying languidly in bed, her legs across Tristan's as he typed madly, trying to get his article in by deadline.

It was only about 9:30, but Rory already found herself yawning.

"Rory," Tristan chastised.

"No, no I'm just a little tired, that's all. I feel totally fine. No more sickness, I swear."

He narrowed his eyes at her in jest. "I'm watching you."

"No, you're watching your hands on the keyboard because you still can't type correctly. I can teach you ho—"

"First of all, no. Second of all, you're distracting me. Shush."

"And the blaring television isn't distracting you?"

"No, the TV helps me think."

"Uh-huh." Rory smiled and took another bite of her pizza. The almost-empty box sat on her lap as she flipped channels, trying to find something watchable. Her hair was held up in a messy chignon, strands of it falling into her face. She was clad only in a tank top and panties.

Tristan ran a hand up one of the silky smooth legs atop his own. Rory raised her eyebrows.

"Article," she reminded him.

"Right! Article, article…"

"Hmm, are my legs a distraction, too?" she rubbed her legs against his, a glint in her eye. "Maybe I should move them away from your work space."

He smirked. "Don't you dare. Your legs also help me think."

"That so?"

"Mmm-hmm." He leaned over and kissed her, one hand resting at the nape of her neck and the other reaching for her hip.

He began to deepen the kiss, bunching the fabric of her tank top in his fist.

"Article…" she murmured against his lip, smiling as he winced.

"Damn. Okay, no more _anything_ until I finish and email this baby to the boss man."

Rory turned back to the television and jerked in surprise at what was now on screen. The commercials had ended and a 'special showing' of _Master and Commander_ was now playing on FX.

She immediately stilled, entranced in the surreal feeling the movie always stirred deep in her chest.

Tristan noticed Rory's attention focus sharply next to him. He looked over at her somber face and glanced at the screen.

"This movie's about an hour too long."

A sad smile crossed his girlfriend's face.

"Rory?"

She shook her head slightly.

"You sure you're okay?"

"You're right. It—it is too long." A preoccupied haze reached her eyes again. "It did win two Oscars, though."

"Which two?"

"Best Cinematography and Best Sound Editing."

"Figures."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Rory questioned, trying not to sound as defensive as she felt.

"I just couldn't see it winning any of the main ones—Best Picture or Actor or something like that."

"I guess you're right. How could Russell Crowe win an Oscar with that hair? It's not fawn-worthy hair. Now, the _Gladiator_ hair? That was hair you could fawn over. It was totally stare-at-able."

"Uhhh…right. You know, I think I work better with music." With that he snatched the remote from a protesting Rory, turned off the TV, and switched the radio on the bedside table on.

Lenny Kravitz's _American Woman_ filled the room.

"Sheesh. How old is this song?"

"Well. Lenny covered it in 1999, but The Guess Who released the original on an album in 1970."

"Why do you know that?"

"I just do. And you know the 'ugh' in Lenny's version?"

"Sure…"

"The guy who played P.K. in _The Power of One_ is the one who made that grunt."

"_The Power of One_? All I remember from that movie is the kid getting peed on and crying about a chicken."

"I happen to love that movie! Morgan Freeman _and_ Daniel Craig are major characters."

"Article," Tristan said, pointing to his laptop and trying not to grin.

"Don't you change the subject."

"Article." He began typing again.

"Okay, now we are definitely watching _The Power of One._"

"Ahem, Rory, please. I've got an article to write."

"Oh, mister, you are in for it now."

She was raising up her pillow to attack when she heard her phone ringing from her purse across the room.

"You have no idea how lucky you are."

He smirked at her as she hopped off the bed to grab her phone, taking it into the bathroom when she saw that it was her mother calling.

"Hey, Mom! It's past midnight over there, isn't it? What's up?"

"Rory…"

She sensed the hesitation in the other woman's voice. "Out with it, lady."

"Logan just left."

Rory's mouth dropped open.

"L—left? Left where?"

"Left here."

"Here? Here as in…_home _here?"

"Yep. He came to Connecticut to see you."

Rory felt her breathing quicken.

"Wh—why?"

"I didn't ask him, kid. But trust me, it was obvious. He…he wants you back, Rory."

A sense of giddiness flooded her body. After all these months of thinking he'd forgotten her after she'd rejected him, he was looking for her.

"I told him you were going to L.A. tomorrow. He's going to fly back out there and, I assume, find you at Barack's campaign rally. Should I have told him? I mean, is it okay that I did?"

"Yeah…yeah, it's really okay, Mom."

"What are you going to do?"

"I—I guess I'll just talk to him." She smiled. She'd get to talk to Logan again. "We'll hash some things out. See how we really feel, what we really want. He's…he's really on his way?"

"He's really on his way."

Rory bit her lip and looked at herself in the mirror. She'd have to look great tomorrow.

"Thanks for calling, Mom"

"No problem, kid. Oh, and Rory…this time, do what's right for _you_."

"What do y—"

"You know what I mean. Goodnight."

"Night."

Rory hung up the phone and placed it carefully on the side of the sink, trying to calm herself. She shouldn't get her hopes too high.

"Yes! Finished! Done! Deadline met!"

Rory heard the exclamation from the other room and was immediately racked with guilt.

The sound of Tristan rising from the bed and approaching the bathroom now reached her ears.

"Mary, Mary, where you goin' to?"

He opened the door and came up behind her, a smile on his handsome face.

"Mary, Mary, can I go to?"

He snaked his arms around her waist and pressed his lips to the skin of shoulder.

Rory's gazed settled on her own troubled eyes reflected back at her in the mirror.

Well, shit.


	10. Sunset? Not So Much

_**Los Angeles**_

There it was. The Los Angeles town hall. Barack Obama's main speaking venue for the day. His speech must have started about ten minutes ago; Logan had just missed getting in beforehand. He'd planned on waiting till it was over and she was leaving to confront her, but he couldn't contain himself.

Rory was within those walls. Taking notes, asking questions, being brilliant. He wanted to see her in element. Reporting. Just a peek. He wouldn't interrupt. He'd stick his head in and…and maybe catch her eye across the room.

She'd rise from her seat and join him in the hall. Words wouldn't be necessary. They'd embrace, and everything else would fade away. The world would be right again.

He exhaled.

The feeling bubbling up inside of him was intoxicating, something he hadn't felt in over eight months. A mixture of excitement, self-doubt, confidence, anxiety, and happiness. Though it didn't seem possible, it was what Rory always managed to instill in him.

He inhaled.

Remember to breathe.

All he had to do was cross the street. He took a step forward. Another step. Almost there.

He stopped at the curb when he felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket. He sighed. Nothing and no one would stop him from going to Rory. He promised himself that before extracting the phone to check the caller ID.

It was Honor. Probably just calling to respond to the angry message he'd left her about taking the jet to Venice without informing him. Well, that could wait. Everything could wait. He ignored the call.

He had reached the other side of the street when he felt his phone ringing again. He sighed.

This had better be good.

**

* * *

**She saw him standing across the street, looking up at the large building—determination in his eyes. Her breath hitched. 

He looked the same. Sure he was a street away, but she could tell he was still her Logan. Same blond hair, same stance, same good style—though his suit looked a little crumpled.

The rest of the room had disappeared to Rory—she could no longer hear Obama, no longer see the large mass of reporters and civilians alike seated around her, no longer feel Tristan's thigh lightly touching her own.

She was glad she'd positioned herself by the window. It gave her the advantage—she knew he was on his way. And she felt glee course through her at the sight of him.

He paused at the curb, but then continued to stride across the street. Her heart started racing. If he came in here—made a scene and carried her out in his arms…

She'd probably have a coronary…or ride off into the sunset like all the best cheesy movies.

It didn't seem so unreasonable.

She could have her sunset. And enjoy it, too.

She saw him stop again as he reached her side of the street and raise his cell phone to his ear.

Something in his face changed. He no longer seemed to be aware of the town hall before him or the people walking by on the sidewalk. Rory strained her eyes to get a better sense of his body language.

She saw him stare almost longingly up at the building and talk into the phone for the first time. He hung up, turned on his heel, and held out his hand to hail a cab.

Rory was dumbstruck. Her first instinct was to go after him, to stop him from leaving her (again). But she couldn't just leave. She had a job to do.

A cab pulled up and she watched Logan get in. What was he doing? Where was he going? Why had he left?

_Why_?

She got to her feet, no longer thinking.

Tristan's eyes snapped up to her. "Rory," he hissed. "Sit down."

She ignored him.

**

* * *

**"Logan, thank God. Listen…" 

Logan waited impatiently as his sister fumbled for words.

At a loss for the proper way to break the news, Honor decided to be blunt.

"Mitchum's dead."

The world around him stopped.

"He—he had a stroke a few hours ago. At the San Francisco office. Are you there now? I've called the jet's pilot and I'll be out of Italy within the hour. I got the call from Grandpa—I haven't heard anything from Mom. Anyway, you need to deal with the body—find storage until plans for the funeral are set. No one's out there to claim him. He's at St. Luke's now."

Logan was silent. He looked at the building before him.

_No_.

His father couldn't do this. Not now. Not when he was so close.

_Rory._

But he couldn't keep Honor's voice—still going on about funeral plans, the will, the business, the family, (all of it) in his ear—from invading his thoughts.

He remembered his responsibilities. To his family. To the business.

He remembered Rory's note from Guy Fawkes Day. He remembered Tristan.

He remembered Grace.

Leaving now would be best for both of them.

Well, best for Rory.

And that was what mattered.

He glanced miserably at the town hall. He'd been so fucking close. But he was needed in San Francisco.

"Honor. I'm in Los Angeles. I'll be in San Francisco as soon as I can. Call me when you get in or when you get a hold of Shira."

He hung up and turned to hail a cab.

**

* * *

**By the time she'd maneuvered around all the reporters, cameras, and security guards and made her way outside, he was gone. 

It was only after the event (and explaining to Tristan that she'd had a 'lady emergency') that she'd gotten a chance to hear the news.

Mitchum Huntzberger had died.

And she'd undoubtedly witnessed his son, the man she still loved, receive the news of his father's passing.

It all seemed so long ago. But it was only yesterday. Only yesterday that she'd thought she'd be spending time with Logan for the first time _in such a long time._

But Mitchum had had a stroke.

Mitchum had _died_.

All the television stations had run it as their top story. And this morning all the newspapers, even the Huntzberger Publishing Group's biggest rivals, covered the tycoon's death in detail.

A media frenzy would undoubtedly occur at the funeral, which was to be held in two days in San Francisco.

This had to be hard on Logan. Maybe he wasn't that connected to his dad, but the man's demise would have great effect on almost every aspect of his life.

The company would be on his shoulders; that massive conglomerate beast had the potential to eat him alive.

He would become president, _the_ Huntzberger.

The precedence set for that position wasn't so great.

She knew he must be wondering if, in taking over, he would fill the role of his father in more ways than one.

Rory was scared.

She knew Logan was strong, but there was no way he could face all this without flinching. Without yearning for someone to be there with him.

Someone who could draw a derby hat on a clipping of Richard Gere and set it on his lap.

Someone who could make him smile and let him know that everything would be alright. That he could handle it.

Someone like her.

Tristan flipped the television off and startled Rory from her position at the window. He'd been watching yet another segment on Mitchum's accomplishments in journalism. She glanced at him.

"Did I tell you I used to know that family? They lived in Hartford, you know."

She bit her lip. "Yeah, you told me."

She'd never divulged to him that Logan was the one she'd almost been engaged to.

"I—I knew him. Logan Huntzberger, I mean. Back at Yale. He was on the paper."

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Oh, yeah? I figured all through college he'd be off fucking whoever he could trick into his bed. Not much time to write articles for Daddy."

She unconsciously stepped away from him, recoiling from his words. She pressed her back against the window.

"I was thinking about going to the funeral."

He looked skeptically at her.

"Mitchum was such a legend and everything," she explained with false earnestness.

"But your job. Rory, the past two days I've had to lend my notes just so you could get your articles in. And, honestly, those just weren't up to par. Your employer probably isn't so happy with you right now. And you can't just take a week off to go up to San Francisco. Barack's moving on tomorrow. You have to go with him."

She turned back to the window, away from him—away from the truth he was telling.

"You signed up for this. Don't forget that. You knew you'd have to make sacrifices. If you go to this funeral…well, you'd have to be replaced."

Rory turned and walked slowly to the couch on which Tristan sat.

He was still concerned.

Her face was grave.

"Promise me you won't go. I don't want you to lose your job. And I don't want to lose having you with me."

She let her hand fall lightly on his shoulder.

"Okay. I won't go."

* * *

**AN- It was short, but look at how fast I got it out… And trust me, you WILL NOT be disappointed with the next chapter! Don't forget to review… :)**


	11. Happy Funeral, Buddy

**AN: Over a hundred reviews! Thank you all so much! And now to show my appreciation…**

_**San Francisco**_

He rested his hand on the lip of the open coffin, fighting the slight fear tingling in his spine that his father would sit up and reprimand him for getting fingerprints on the expensive mahogany exterior.

The mighty Mitchum Huntzberger would never have wanted an open casket. It would be an opportunity for all his peers to see him in a weakened state—the weakest state there was. But he wasn't around to give orders anymore.

"I love my dead gay son." It would be inappropriate to turn to the others attending the wake and proclaim that, right? Then why couldn't he get the line out of his head? If only she hadn't forced him to watch _Heathers_ so many times…

Logan let his eyes rest on the face of the dead man before him. It was caked in make-up, as all faces of the deceased are when they must be subjected to the scrutiny of their friends and family during viewing hours.

Viewing hours. As if the funeral parlor was a zoo and Mitchum the rare and oft-sought giant panda.

Wouldn't old Mitchum be proud of that metaphor?

But this was no longer Mitchum, was it? It was a body in a box.

A mass of decaying human flesh; that's all he was now.

The newspaper king. He scoffed. One wouldn't guess it from this display.

This body had no qualities possessed by the man in life. It had all the ferocity of a block of cheese.

It was not intimidating. Not harsh. Not driven. Not demanding. Not violent. Not in a state of unvarying irritation or…disappointment…in the young man now standing straight and still before the large, commanding coffin.

It was just another body for the ground to consume.

Logan didn't feel the freedom he'd always secretly imagined he'd feel with the absence of his father.

Emptiness. That was it. Not grief. Not regret. Not even resentment.

Just a dull sense of nothing. Apathy. A complete lack of emotion.

Wait, that wasn't entirely true.

Hopelessness.

Now _he_ was the head honcho. Leader of the pack. The big one. Papa Huntzberger.

Logan knew very well that it was a huge load to bear. And he would've been ready for it in ten or fifteen years, when his father was set to retire.

But now? Now he was just twenty-five years old.

His father had done the job and done it well. He'd made the business prosper in ways no one could have imagined. But he'd let the job become his entire life.

'Better him than me.' That had been Logan's perpetual dictum. Well now there was no 'him' to whom to shift the responsibility, the risk, the blame.

Only a 'me.'

Was it distressing that Logan saw this whole thing as an addition of responsibility rather than the loss of a loved one? Was it appalling that his last words to the man had been 'Fuck. you.'? Was it deplorable that their last shared sentiment was that of anger?

In a way he saw it as fitting. It was what their relationship had always been.

A schmaltzy deathbed reconciliation with claims of love and pride thirty years from now wouldn't have suited. Not for them.

He felt a hand clap down on his shoulder.

"Logan, buddy, sorry for your loss," Colin said in that way of his—it was impossible to tell if he was being sarcastic or sincere.

"Yeah, mate. Nobody thought old Mitch would kick the bucket for another nine or ten decades at least. I could tell ten stories in which this man made me piss my pants in fear and Colin roll over in submission—and yes I mean it that way. Well, let me have a quick look." Finn peered over Logan's shoulder and shuddered. "Makes me want to chunder."

"'Scuse me? Chunder?"

"Oh, you know—vomit."

"I never get tired of that Australian slang." This time the sarcasm was unmistakable. "You know I always took him," Colin pointed a thumb at the deceased man at his side, "for cremation."

"A bunch of ashes? No, old Huntz would want to take up as much space as possible in death, with a monument the size of a mammoth to mark the grave."

Logan turned to them and extended his hand in greeting, first to Finn, then to Colin. "You came. It's good to have you guys here."

"It's good to be here. Although, I don't quite understand why 'here' has to be in California and not in Connecticut. You know, where Mitchum lived…"

"Colin, you dolt—don't ever complain about California. The girls here are six times as likely to give the likes of you a romp. Especially if you're in town for a funeral—pity sex. It's a gift from above. Oh, that reminds me. Logan—I'm in town now, aren't I? I believe you owe me the phone number of one Deena Tillman."

Logan smiled. He was glad his best friends were acting like his best friends. A somber Colin paired with a sober Finn—he cringed. That would be the exact opposite of what he needed at a time like this.

"My father loved San Francisco—in his will, he refused to be buried in Hartford. So we figured we might as well let the Hartford socialite gang get a vacation out of this…obligation. As for that number, maybe after the funeral, eh Finny boy? I would love to hear you get shot down—even if it is only sitting in on one side of the rejection."

"Fortunately for me, phone calls are my forte. The accent has amazing draw. If a sheila hears me on the phone before she sees me she's thirteen times as likely to invite me into bed."

"Where are you getting all these astounding statistics?" Colin asked, unconsciously leaning his elbow on the casket before catching himself and bringing his hand up to straighten his tie.

"Ah, it's all intuition. Finntuition, if you will."

"Fantastic, now he'll begin putting his name in front of any and every word with an 'in.'"

"You, my blond friend, are quite right. The only solution is to fill him with booze and set him loose among your dad's high class cronies. At the very least, it'll liven up this shindig. Get it? _Liven_ up."

Finn scanned the room. "I feel a subfuneral coming on. Sort of like a subparty, but the clothes'll be a bit more drab. Yes, it's perfect--I'm a genius. Colin, to the booze!"

"Happy funeral, buddy!" Colin called over his shoulder as he followed his friend.

With that Logan was left alone again beside the coffin, an amused look on his face. Much as he'd love to go off and get drunk with his friends, this wasn't the place or the time. He looked back down at his father and with that, the weight of the last few days—temporarily lifted by the arrival of his friends—found him again. The stress of it all returned in an almost overwhelming deluge, and Logan felt as though he couldn't breathe. No more Mitchum, new job, new responsibilities, new pressure, no Rory…

He turned sharply away from the casket, fighting the urge to bring his hands to his throat and indicate to all that he was choking—on nothing.

Logan dug his fingernails into his palm, trying to regain composure. He quickly made his way to a table filled with glasses of water. He took a swig and let the cool liquid soothe his tightened throat. That was as close to a panic attack as he had ever come.

Never again. He needed to be in control of his emotions at all times.

Damn, that really sounded like a lecture he'd once received from the dead man on the other side of the room.

He downed the rest of his water and set the glass aside, ambling over to the table covered in cheeses and crackers—shaking hands and giving a 'brave' smile here and there to the wake-goers along the way.

He was famished. He didn't remember the last time he'd had a real meal. Wakes, funerals, wills…it all took a lot more work than he'd imagined.

And Honor was no help. She'd been surprisingly…well, sad. Weepy and depressed. Like a real brokenhearted daughter mourning her beloved father. He could barely understand it. Luckily, Josh was around to be her sympathetic ear—Logan probably couldn't have done it himself.

His mother—well, at least Shira knew all the right protocol. He searched the room and spotted her chatting quietly with one of Mitchum's brothers. Her black dress was just the right tint and the exact acceptable length. She was acting the society widow to perfection. Graceful, grievous, gracious…and plenty of other 'gr's, he was sure. He couldn't really tell how sincere she was. He didn't really care to put much effort into figuring it out. Sometimes it was just nice not to analyze things.

He saw his uncle put his hand comfortingly on Shira's arm. She smiled up at him.

Looking for a new husband already? The _Hamlet_ route would, indeed, be interesting.

Logan sighed. He shouldn't be so hard on her. Not now.

He watched as his mother bid her brother-in-law adieu and continued to float through the crowd.

There was his grandfather.

Seymour Hersh.

Mark Zuckerberg.

His second cousin, Penny.

A Clinton—he couldn't remember which one.

Grace.

A cluster of the Hartford elite.

Honor.

A few of his coworkers.

Rory.

His dad's old secre—

_Holy shit!_

**

* * *

**She spotted him long before he became aware of her presence. In fact, she'd first seen Logan standing alone before his father's coffin. Rory had almost crept up behind him, ready to softly give her condolences in a sophisticated manner. But then Colin and Finn had come out of nowhere. 

He'd turned around and she'd felt her stomach in her throat.

This was really happening. He wasn't three thousand miles away, there was no street packed with cars between them—only a room full of people.

She'd let her eyes go to town. She took in every feature slowly, imprinting his image in her mind in case—in case he disappeared or she lost her nerve. Rory was surprised he couldn't feel her eyes on him, for her gaze was intense.

His hair was the same—tousled attractively and true blond. His eyebrows formed that perfect guy browline. His eyes were still deep brown and full of calculating intelligence. The mischief she'd always known to accompany that intelligence was noticeably absent. His nose fit his face perfectly. His lips were as she remembered. As he talked with his friends she could tell he was always on the verge of that trademark smirk. His chin—she had always loved his chin. It seemed masculine, powerful.

Rory sighed, full of relief.

Logan was still Logan.

But there were differences. How could she possibly miss those?

He'd been living in California for two-thirds of a year, but he seemed paler. He'd lost some weight and there was stress evident in him—it was in the area around his eyes, it was in his stance, it was in his gestures as he spoke.

Sure he was standing there joking with the boys, but she could tell he was off-tilt.

He looked older. There was a shadow in his eyes, dampening his spirit. That shadow—it seemed ingrained. Not newly acquired.

She watched as Colin and Finn walked away from him, both looking determined. Her gaze followed them to the man with the tray of wine glasses. Alcohol. Of course. She had missed this pair and their various antics. They'd always made her feel young and vivacious.

Rory pulled her long coat closer to her body. Damn, it was getting hot in here.

She turned back to where Logan had been standing to find a teary Honor now standing before the casket. Rory didn't let eyes linger on the man inside that coffin. She couldn't handle all the issues she still had with that man now.

Rory found Logan making his way to the table of crackers—she'd spent quite a bit of time hovering over the finger food herself when she'd first arrived.

He still seemed rigid. She wondered if it was the toll of his vice-presidency. The loss of his father. Fear of his new position as president and head of the family. Or—this thought came on its own—or the loss of her.

Logan was letting his eyes wander around the room. Rory held her breath. His gaze breezed over her.

Oh God.

But then his eyes were on her again. He was looking directly at her, his eyes wide with incredulity.

Her chest tightened.

He'd definitely spotted her.

**

* * *

**He blinked. 

Still there.

Again.

She hadn't disappeared.

A third time.

Those big blue eyes were still pointed toward him. She'd been staring at him, and now she looked like she'd just been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. She bit her lip subconsciously and Logan thought he'd have a heart attack and need to be buried right alongside his father. Rory had an endearing habit of biting her lip whenever she was nervous…and during foreplay.

He took her in. Her dark hair was longer than it had been, but not by much. Her skin was as luminous as ever, her figure was the same—petite, but slightly curvy. Those eyes, as startlingly clear and cerulean as ever. She was drop dead gorgeous.

He noted her apparel and half-smiled to himself. She was wearing an emerald green dress, one that would make her stand out in a crowd—especially this crowd. She was trying her darndest to cover it up with a long black coat. Green at a funeral would be a major faux pas.

They stood staring at each other across the room for a full minute, unable to move, unable to breathe.

And then he took a step forward.

Just one.

He waited to see what she would do.

Rory looked down at her own feet, willing herself to take that step, as he had done.

This was Logan.

_Logan_.

That put a fire under her.

She thrust herself forward, but didn't stop at just one step. She continued to walk straight toward him and he joined her stride for stride till they met in the center of the room.

Rory and Logan stood before each other silently, eye contact never faltering.

Rory's eyes began to mist over. She had missed this man _so much_.

Her leaking baby blues seemed to be causing him pain.

She looked scared. And the tears cut him deep. He couldn't stand seeing her cry.

Standing across from him like this without touching him—so close after so god damned long—it would kill her. She couldn't take it anymore.

Rory propelled herself forward against his chest and his arms immediately encircled her in a tight embrace. She heard his sharp intake of breath as their bodies met and she buried her face in the fabric of his clean, pressed shirt.

All the tension left his body. A strangled sob escaped her throat. He rested his face lightly in her hair and shut his eyes tight, reveling in the moment.

For an instant they were alone. They were complete in each other's arms and everything—the proposal, the time apart, the other partners, the funeral, all of it—faded away. Those blissful seconds left his heart full and her head swimming.

But it couldn't last forever.

Logan felt eyes focused on the two of them and straightened slightly. Rory couldn't miss the almost imperceptible shift in him. She stiffened and raised her head, wanting to look into his eyes and decipher the cause of the change. As she did so their cheeks grazed.

His face was cold to the touch.

They looked at each other silently; now their surroundings were inescapable. They separated slowly, taking a couple of steps back.

Their defenses went up immediately.

Rory crossed her arms in front of her, suddenly self-conscious.

He clenched his jaw. Reality was beginning to set in. Grace's image was nagging at the back of his mind. She was here somewhere. He hadn't been able to talk to her since he'd returned. She still thought the two of them were…

No.

He could stave it off. Rory was right in front of him. He didn't have to be realistic, not now. He'd think about it all tomorrow. Who said he couldn't be Scarlett O'Hara ? Men could go into denial, too.

As they parted, Rory searched Logan's face, trying to judge his demeanor. His countenance was reminiscent of how it had been as the elevator doors had shut that terrible morning he'd left for London. As if he were saying goodbye.

His eyes were doleful, troubled, miserable. And she couldn't write it off as grief for his father. That look wasn't for _him_. It was for her. There was nothing in his eyes but her.

And it was breaking her heart.

But then his face had lightened, as if he'd shaken off his misgivings. And she'd been filled with hope.

Now the look in his eyes…

She knew it backwards and forwards. It had always made her feel exceptional, beautiful, brilliant. She had _yearned_ for that look on the tour bus.

Logan was very aware that they had yet to say a word to each other. He needed to say something—ease the tension.

He cleared his throat.

"Nice dress." His voice was hoarse. A small smirk appeared on his face.

A deep blush crept into her face. Damn, what that blush could do to him.

"I…I was on my way to—well, I wasn't exactly planning on coming here today. But then…I just had to. I couldn't let you do this alone—well, not alone… I mean, I thought I owed it to you to be here. So I changed my plans…and here I am."

He nodded his head, enjoying the rapid way she spoke. He was glad she still thought of him.

"I—I'm so sorry about Mit—"

"Don't," he choked out, effectively cutting her off. "Our first conversation after this long will not have anything to do with my father."

Her eyes met his again.

"Alright. So…what's been—"

"Logan."

His mother had appeared at his side.

"The funeral service is starting in a few minutes. Let's get your sister and head into the chapel."

Her eyes fell on Rory and she set a pleased look (it was clearly a fake) on her face. "Rory. How good of you to come."

"My condolences, Shira."

"That's sweet. Logan, I'll see _you_ in the front row." A not-so-subtle Rory's-not-invited hint. She glanced at Rory again and left in search of Honor.

Rory faced him with a slight smile. "Just like old times, huh?"

"You'll wait for me after?" He had to know.

She bit her lip, and he felt his knees weaken.

Her response was a whisper.

"Of course."


	12. Ding Dong the Mitch is Dead

_**San Francisco**_

She sat in the last row, the one closest to the door in case she felt the need to bolt. Unfortunately, this placed her as far away from Logan as she could possibly be. Much as she strained her neck, Rory was unable to spot the back of his very blond head.

So she was left to herself, thinking of all the ways Mitchum Huntzberger had changed her life. Of the things he had so maliciously done to her, to Logan. Of all the times she'd wished his death on him.

She hadn't been serious. Not _completely_ serious anyway. Her extensive knowledge of torture had only been applied to her boyfriend's father ten or twenty times…

Rory thought back to all the conspiratorial conversations she and Logan had had about Mitchum. She would get a fantastic writing job and drive up the sales of a rival paper. The man would eat his words about her not having 'it.' Logan would leave Huntzberger Publishing Group for good, start up a booming internet company, sell it off in ten years for a boatload, and live a life of leisure—with the occasional article written for the _Post_ or the _Times_ when he was bored. They'd drop all contact with the lot of them—Shira and Elias included.

But nothing had turned out that way. She was a traveling writer for a small internet company—well, she guessed that's not what she was anymore. Now she was unemployed with nowhere to go. Logan was working for the Huntzberger Publishing Company—in fact, he'd be running the whole damn thing soon. And they weren't together.

And Mitchum was dead. That certainly put a hitch in their plans.

Mitchum. His words had crushed her, had obliterated life as she knew it in almost every aspect. She had lost sight of her dream, her true passion. She had lost her beloved Yale. She had lost precious months with her mother. She had lost her independence. She had lost her self-confidence.

But deep down, Rory knew she was better for it all—though she'd never admit it. She had fought her way back to the top—finished Yale on time, gotten a respectable job, and become a more efficient writer. Mitchum had helped her, though unintentionally.

And her period of crisis had further cemented her relationship with Logan. That couldn't be denied. Logan had proffered his sturdy shoulder and a friendly ear after his father's evil deeds. He'd been subjected to Mitchum's critical disdain all his life, but he had still comforted Rory when she'd needed it most. And he'd encouraged her to get her life back on track. Not in a way that she felt she was being ordered to something against her will, but in a straightforward assessment of what _she_ really wanted.

She snapped to attention when the pallbearers rose, took hold of the coffin, and began to walk it toward the door at the back of the crowded chapel. Logan was the first on the left, his face studiously somber and his light hair standing out among all the black of the room.

Rory tried to catch his eye as the procession went by, but his gaze was focused straight ahead.

**

* * *

**

Upon his return to the funeral home from the cemetery, Logan was bombarded. He stood with his mother and sister near the door as a steady stream of mourners went down the line and gave their condolences and prayers.

Rory waited patiently, perched on a chair in the corner of the large room. She watched him from her position, refamiliarizing herself with his image, burning it into her brain. Every so often he would glance in her direction, as if to assure himself that she was still there. Each flicker of his eyes sent her stomach whirling.

God, she was nervous. Soon everyone would be gone. And the two of them would get a chance to talk. Really talk. And what would she say? How would they interact? Butterflies didn't begin to describe the state of her insides.

Rory clutched her coat to her sides again, still trying to conceal her inappropriate attire. Now she was also covering up the stain down the front—damn carrot dip. She should never have tried to eat a vegetable.

She suddenly remembered that her phone was still silenced. What if her mother had tried to call? Rory fished her cell out of her coat pocket and flipped it open.

Three missed calls from Tristan. And one from her boss. Her _former_ boss.

She turned the phone off and extracted a paperback copy of _Of Human Bondage _from her purse, settling in to read.

**

* * *

**

"Thank you very much, Mr. Peterson. I'm sure my father would appreciate your prayers."

When the man was out of sight, Logan let out a small groan. He'd been standing at the door for over two hours, saying goodbye to attendees. He was afraid Rory would get tired of waiting and leave. She had finished her book twenty minutes ago. All he wanted to do was sweep her up in his arms and get the hell out of this musty death house.

Plus, he really had to pee.

At least almost everyone had cleared out. And he'd be with her soon en—

"DING DONG THE MITCH IS DEAD! WHICH OLD MITCH? THE WICKED MITCH!"

"Oh, Finn," Logan murmured to himself, briefly covering his eyes with his hand. Finn, clearly drunk, was running back and forth across the room and screaming out his parody of a song from _The Wizard of Oz._

"Logan!" his mother hissed at his side. "Contain your…_friend_."

"Don't worry, Shira," Colin, who'd appeared in front of them, interjected. "I've got this covered." He turned to Logan. "At least he's wearing clothes, man."

Logan watched as Colin wrestled Finn out of the room. His gaze found Rory, who was trying to hold in her laughter at the scene. He smiled to himself.

Logan scanned the room. There were only a couple of people left. Shira and Honor could deal with them. He was done for the night.

He began to make his way to her side of the room. This would be hard. Saying goodbye to her. He knew she'd have to go back to Barack Obama. And Tristan Dugrey.

He stood at the side of her chair, his hands in his pockets and his eyes on his feet.

"Thank you," he murmured, not looking up.

"For what?"

"For coming here today. It really means—it really means a lot to me. Thank you."

She nodded, not sure of what to say.

He cleared his throat. "So, where's Barack headed next? Can I look forward to an interesting postcard?"

"No."

"No?"

"I'm not on the tour anymore."

His head snapped up, but she wouldn't meet his eyes. Her attention was focused intently on a loose thread on her coat.

"Well, then...would you like to have dinner? Where are you staying? Are you even staying in San Francisco tonight?"

"I'm staying. I don't have a hotel room, yet. When I was here last I stayed at the Drake. Is there anywhere else you'd recommend?"

Logan bit his tongue to keep from begging her to spend the night at his place. He remembered the chilled air between them after their initially intimate greeting before the funeral. It would only hurt him. Having her near. Knowing she'd have to leave again.

He would be a masochist. He couldn't not see her.

"Stay at my place." His voice was strained.

He noted the struggle playing across her features.

"Logan—I can't."

"I didn't say 'stay in my bed.' Rory, please."

She wasn't used to him calling her by her name. She longed to hear him say Ace, just once.

"Do I have to pull the my-dad-is-dead-card? Don't think I won't."

A small smile formed on her face.

"Fine…I—I don't have any luggage—or clothes, or toiletries, or _anything_ for that matter. Can we stop by a drug store?"

"I'll take care of it."

"Logan—"

"Don't worry about a thing."

They held each other's gaze for a moment.

"Okay then. Let's go." She stood.

"In a minute. My bladder's on the verge of exploding."

"Thank goodness you said that. Mine, too! Bathroom, then go?"

"Bathroom, then go," he confirmed.

**

* * *

**

He set his car keys on the kitchen counter and removed his suit jacket, flinging it over the back of a chair. He turned to Rory.

"Can I take your coat?"

"Oh, yeah. Sure. And thanks."

She removed the thick garment and handed it to him. Logan placed it in the closet and returned to Rory.

His eyes ran up and down her form, marveling at her amazing body. It had been so long since he'd had that body all to himself.

Her bright green dress complimented her perfectly and set off the blue in her eyes. He recalled the looks she'd received while trying to hide her festive outfit from the other funeral-goers. A smirk formed on his face.

"Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"Thinking about me trying to cover up my dress."

"You know me too well."

"It really wasn't my fault. I wasn't planning on—"

"You look gorgeous."

She blushed, noticing the twinkle in his eye.

He smiled at her reddened face.

"Hungry?"

"Starved."

"Do you want to go out and experience San Francisco's finest cuisine or would you rather—"

"Order in?" Her voice was eager.

He chuckled. "I figured as much. Chinese sound good?"

"Perfect."

He gestured for her to take a seat on the couch and made the order. When he joined her, Rory already had her shoes off and her legs curled up under her.

He took a seat at the opposite end of the sofa, afraid to get too close lest she push him away and say something about her boyfriend back on the bus.

"So…" he started.

"So…"

"Tookie Clothespin?"

Rory's eyes went wide.

"That you?"

"Huh?" she squeaked.

"Dale, the paper's editor, told me a beautiful young blue-eyed brunette named Tookie Clothespin came looking for me the day I was out of the office. I think that was the same day you would've been here covering Obama."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"That so?"

"Scout's honor."

"Were you ever a scout?"

"Actually, yes. For one meeting. But then they pushed that cookie sales stuff on me, and I hightailed it out of there."

"Well, I'll trust your word then. Because of that one meeting."

Silence enveloped the room.

She cocked her head and squinted at him.

"Stop that," he commanded, using her words.

"Stop what?"

"Judging my emotional state."

She smiled. "You know me too well." Her eyes searched his. "How are you feeling?"

He sighed. "Alright. You know my dad and I weren't exactly, well, you and your mom."

"Not many are. We're freakishly linked. Do…do you want to talk about anything? After all that research I did before my internship, I found out a wealth of information about your father."

"I think I'll pass, thanks."

"Okay but if you ever want to talk about Mitchum…or you'd like some major psychoanalysis…I'm here."

For how long? he asked himself.

"I'll keep that in mind."

"I'm keeping my eye on you for those five stages of grief, mister."

"I don't think I'd call what I'm experiencing grief."

"That sounds like denial to me."

"Who died and made you Kübler-Ross?"

"Actually, Elisabeth Kübler-Ross died in 2004. So, in response, she did."

"Wow, everyone's dropping like flies."

"That's incre—"

She was cut off by the doorbell. Logan hopped up from the couch.

"Food's here."

"That was unbelievably quick."

"They know how well I tip when my food arrives in under fifteen minutes."

"How well?"

"Well enough to always get here in less than ten."

**

* * *

**

They sat in silence on the couch, eating their Chinese out of the boxes and watching the evening news.

She gazed intently at the screen, undoubtedly memorizing every detail lest it should come up in a future conversation or could be perceived as useful in a future article.

He couldn't keep his eyes off her. This was exactly the way they would've spent a typical evening before they'd broken up. Greasy Chinese, Rory watching the news, Logan watching Rory. A discussion over the news, followed by an argument over the news, followed by passionate passionate sex.

Logan ran a hand through his hair. Best not to think of that.

Rory set her box of noodles down and set her chin on her hand, deep in concentration.

Had she only returned because of Mitchum? What if he hadn't died? What if Logan had made it to her in L.A.? Would she have laughed in his face?

Was she only spending the night out of pity? Would she be gone tomorrow? Back to Stars Hollow? Back to her mother? Back to Dugrey?

"_And now our top story. Media mogul Mitchum Huntzberger's funeral was today at a lavish servi—"_

Rory grabbed the remote and snapped the TV off, glancing at Logan to gauge his reaction.

"Rory, really, it doesn't bother me."

"Bother you? Oh no, I was just done with the news. That anchor, she's very irksome. I don't know how you put up with seeing her every night."

At that second, a cat jumped onto the sofa, sitting casually between them, its eyes on Rory.

"What is that?"

"My cat."

"You have a _cat_?"

"Yes."

"You so do not seem like a cat person."

"I wouldn't call myself a _cat person_. I just wanted a pet."

"It's staring at me." She cocked her head at the animal. "Hello." Rory turned to Logan. "What's its name?"

"…I don't want to tell you."

"_What_?"

"I don't want to tell you."

"Why? What could its name possibly be? Unless it's…it's not Rory, is it?"

He laughed at her expression. "No, I'm not quite that creepy. Give it time, though. This cat is male, anyway."

"Then what's his name?"

Logan sighed. "Oscar."

She stared at him. "Oscar? That's it? That's not at all embarrassing. I was expecting a golden mockery opportunity."

"I guess you're right. I don't know why I didn't come out with it in the first pl—"

"Oscar what?"

Damn.

"Mayer Wiener?"

She raised her eyebrows, obviously doubting him.

Logan grimaced. "Oscar Wilde," he mumbled.

She couldn't contain her laughter.

"You—you're a little old lady who names her cats after dead writers! How sad for you!"

"_Cat_ not cat_s_. I only have one." There was really no way to defend himself.

"Not only are you a work dork, you're also a cat dweeb!"

"I am not!"

"Are too!"

"Am not!"

"_Oscar Wilde_? Aren't all straight males supposed to be at least a little homophobic? This is giving me some serious suspicions about your sexuality."

"First of all, Oscar Wilde was married—to a woman! Secondly, _Oscar Wilde and Friends_ is my favorite Monty Python skit. And, finally, I've read _The Canterville Ghost_ fifty times!"

"You are such a cat dweeb!"

"Okay, you aren't allowed to be here anymore. Get out of my house. I'm going to be alone with my cat."

She laughed harder as he took the cat in his arms and made his way down the hall to the laundry room—where the litter box, food, and cat bed were located. He could still hear her giggles from the main room. He pet Oscar's head and set him down in the room, closing the door so he couldn't follow him out.

"Sorry, buddy, but she'll only tease the both of us if you're walking around out there," he called through the door.

As he reentered the main room, the doorbell rang.

"You order more food?" Rory asked from her seat.

"Nope. It's probably Shira come to berate me about—well, about you, I'd guess."

"Logan?" a very non-Shira-like voice called over the intercom installed in the hall outside his door. "It's me. Open up."

_Shit_.

Grace.

Grace was at his door.

His eyes snapped to Rory.

Her face was blank.

Her eyes looked distant.

She raised stood from the couch.

"You know, I'm exhausted. I think I'll just go to bed."

"There are sweats and a few t-shirts in the guest room—that's the second room on the left." He pointed down the hallway. "There should be towels in the connecting bathroom if you'd like to shower."

Grace rang the doorbell again.

"Thanks." Rory walked past him. "Goodnight," she said, a little frigidly.

He sighed in frustration. "Night."

**

* * *

**

The second she was sure he was out in the hallway with…with his girlfriend, Rory tiptoed to the door and pressed her ear against it.

Eavesdropping wasn't a crime, was it?

Not that she cared if it was…

She could only make out the muffled sound of voices. Damn this thick, fancy door. Why did Logan have to be able to afford the expensive sound-proof wood?

What was he telling her? That his ex was spending the night? That he would be over at her place the second his surprise guest was asleep? That she should come in and join the party?

God this was so real. Rory tried to keep tears from forming in her eyes. The woman Logan had spent his time with over all these months was on the other side of this door.

He'd talked to her, kissed her, made love to her…

She closed her eyes, willing herself not to look out the peep hole and see what Grace Talbot really looked like. She'd seen the woman in the tabloid shots of Huntzberger and his new 'hottie,' but then Rory could pretend the other woman didn't really exist. She couldn't do that if she could both see _and_ hear her.

Rory turned on her heel and headed toward the guest room.

Sleep would be good. Tomorrow she'd get a flight back to Connecticut. Or at least check in to a hotel room.

**

* * *

**

Instead of inviting Grace into his apartment, Logan joined her in the hallway. He crossed his arms in front of him before she could move to embrace him. There was no way she didn't notice his obvious slight.

"How are you? Logan, I've been calling every couple of hours the past few days but you never pick up. I've stopped by twice but you haven't been home. I didn't even get to talk to you at the funeral. When I approached you, you brushed me off. Please, tell me you're okay."

He felt his heart constrict in pain. She was really concerned for him. And he was about to…

He couldn't do it. Not now.

"I'm fine. I've just been busy with—with everything. All the funeral planning and relatives coming in."

She reached out and laid her hand comfortingly on his arm.

"I'm really sorry about your father."

He moved away from her touch.

"Thank you."

She stared at him, confused by his actions.

"Um, you—you left me a message before, um, before your father…You said you wanted to talk to me about something?"

He stared at a spot on the floor.

"Logan?"

He glanced up. Her face looked weary. Her blonde hair was windswept and a strand hung in her face.

"Talk to me. Please."

"Now's not the best time. Can we meet for lunch tomorrow?"

"Yes…"

"Alright, I'll give you a call."

"Okay…Logan, are you sure—"

"Grace, I have to go."

"Okay. I guess I'll see you tomorrow."

Grace leaned forward and pecked him on the cheek.

"Goodnight."

**

* * *

**

Logan shut the door behind him and leaned against the heavy wood.

He felt like such a jackass. To Grace and to Rory. If only Grace wasn't so perfect. If only Rory didn't have such a hold over him.

He planned on breaking up with Grace tomorrow. There was no doubt as to why. For Rory. But how would Rory respond?

Would Rory even be around tomorrow?

If so, a serious discussion was inevitable. They couldn't keep dancing around each other.

The problem was that there were feelings on both sides. And they both knew it.

He'd wanted to _marry_ her.

She hadn't been ready for that, but she'd at least wanted to stay together.

The knowledge of these feelings made their interactions slightly awkward. He'd been feeling it all night. He could tell she had, too.

They loved each other. They hadn't stopped loving each other. The circumstances that had kept them apart didn't stop love.

They might both have tried to forget about it. They might both have found other people to try and replace each other. But none of that meant anything.

An ostrich's head doesn't cease to exist whilst buried in the sand.

Logan rubbed his temples. He didn't just make that analogy did he? It must have been later than he thought.

He walked to his bedroom, pausing for a brief second just outside the guest room door before continuing on.


	13. Hell Has a Movie Theater?

**AN: I just want to say a giant thank you to all my reviewers. Some of you have been leaving reviews since the beginning and it really does keep me writing. And that was a challenge today, considering that the Colts were playing the Broncos. Dahh, my two favorite teams! But I'll always be a Colts fan—Superbowl Champs!!!**

**San Francisco**

He heard a door open and looked up from his breakfast, taken aback. It was too early for any normal person to be awake. Especially Rory.

She ambled around the corner into the kitchen and stopped short, surprised that Logan could possibly be up at this hour. Her reporter's schedule had gotten her used to very early mornings. Of course Logan would be the same way. He had a whole paper to run.

"Morning," she mumbled, feeling a little uneasy. His eyes were still on her.

She was wearing his sweats. His t-shirt.

Her hair was mussed from sleep and her eyes weren't fully open.

He couldn't help but notice her lack of bra.

His dick was definitely at full attention.

He swallowed the cereal he'd been unable to take down when she'd rounded the corner.

"Same to you."

She trudged over to the cabinets, opening a few before she found the bowls. He directed her to the spoons and held the milk up to show that it was already at the table. Rory sat across from him and took the cereal box in her hand.

"Good old Count Chocula. It's been too long."

"I'm glad I could reunite you two."

"You know, I haven't seen any cereal commercials in ages. Except for those low cholesterol Cheerios ones. Blech. I mean, when was the last time you saw Tucan Sam, or the Honeycomb…thing, or the Sugar Crisp Bear, or Snap, Crackle, and Pop, or the Smacks Frog, or the Honey Nut Bee, or even Count Chocula here? I miss my cereal mascots—breakfast isn't the same without them."

He gave her a slightly lopsided smile. "Those mascots encourage kids to make unhealthy breakfast choices."

"So you condone their decline—nay, their _demise_?"

"Hey, wait a second, look who you've got in your hands, there. Count Chocula is very important to me. It's just that I understand why Lucky the Leprechaun and the Trix Rabbit aren't running around on TV anymore. The media's trying to slim down the younger generation. Not that it'll do much good."

"Well, a lack of friendly cartoon faces to associate with breakfast isn't going to solve anything. I, for one, would rather be fat."

"Eat your breakfast, lady."

She smiled at him. That had felt normal. Much more normal than the semi-forced talk they'd come up with last night.

Logan eyed her across the table, trying to decide whether he should tell her about his lunch with Grace today. The lunch at which he planned to break the woman's heart in deference to Rory. Nah. He didn't want to freak her out.

Even if Rory was gone by the end of the day, it would be better to end things with his blonde girlfriend. The guilt he experienced in stringing her along and pretending to have feelings he didn't have was extreme. She would lead a better life free of him, anyway.

"Oh!" He couldn't believe he'd forgotten to tell her!

Her spoon hovered in the air. She stared at him, a little alarmed at his outburst.

"You'll never believe it. I was walking down the street and I passed _Richard Gere_."

A wide smile crossed her face. She set down her spoon, forgetting about breakfast altogether. "Wow! Here in San Francisco?"

"Yep. Rory, guess what he was wearing?"

"An Indian woman on his lips?"

"A derby."

"Oh my god!" Rory couldn't believe it. This was like some kind of symbol for their relationship come to life. She still had the faded old newspaper upon which he'd doodled. It was in her purse now. "When did this happen?

"Actually, it was the day Obama was here."

She smiled. That meant…He'd thought of her. He'd traveled across the country to get to her after seeing Richard Gere in a derby hat. She'd have to send that man some kind of fruit basket.

"Wasn't that the day you flew to Stars Hollow?"

"Ah, so you've to talked to Lorelai."

"I always talk to Lorelai."

"Does she know you're here?"

Rory looked away. "No. No one does."

Logan nodded. He wouldn't prod about why she hadn't told anyone. He didn't want to get her thinking about it too much. She might reconsider staying here. She might leave.

"Richard Gere in a derby hat." She shook her head. "In Arkansas, I met someone named George Glass…"

"Like Jan's made-up boyfriend?"

"Yes! Finally! Everyone I told thought I was insane. I mean, come on! It's _The Brady Bunch_!"

He chuckled. "I know it is. No need to get all worked up."

"George didn't even know what I was talking about. He'd never heard about it before. That means no one's ever brought it up with him."

"Until you."

"Right. I told him to go home and do some research on it. He stared at me and then went back to flipping burgers, but I think I planted the seed of curiosity."

"Of course you did." He grinned at her. "Rory, there's a reporter on staff named Jim Jones."

"No!"

"And for our Christmas party, he was in charge of the drinks."

"No way…that's hilarious! He didn't bring…"

"Kool-aid."

"You're kidding! There is no way something like that could work out so perfectly."

He put his hand over his heart. "I swear, it's all true."

Their eyes met and held. They had missed a lot in each other's lives. Not just silly coincidences, but real, significant events. And some small things, too.

There were all the conversations they'd never have, all the thoughts and ideas they'd missed, all the feelings they'd never share.

Both were pensive, thinking about time lost.

Not wanting to dwell on the past any longer, Logan stood to put his bowl and spoon into the dishwasher. He smiled down at his cat as Oscar rubbed against his legs, purring loudly.

Trying to keep his tone casual, he looked over shoulder. "How long do you think you'll be staying?"

"Here or in San Francisco?"

"If you're staying in San Francisco, you're staying here. There's no sense in throwing money away on a hotel."

Rory winced slightly. He was right. And she had practically nothing in the way of funds. Not on her salary. Her former salary.

"So how long will you be in town?"

"I don't have any commitments to be elsewhere, if that's what you mean. I left my job. I've gotten a few missed calls from my mom—she's got to be worried about my Houdini-like disappearance and complete lack of communication. I'll probably go back to Connecticut in the next couple of days."

His gut wrenched. "Okay." He turned to her. "I've got to go in to the office."

Her brow furrowed. "What? It's the day after your father's funeral. You can't."

"I have to show the investors that the company isn't any weaker after the death of my father. Our stock depends on my performance in the next couple of weeks. HPG is on my shoulders now. I can't not go in today."

"How responsible of you."

"Well the…um…president of the Huntzberger Publishing Group has to be responsible."

With that he retreated to his bedroom to change for work. When he reemerged, Rory was putting the milk back in the fridge.

She turned and looked sadly at him. He was rising to his duty wonderfully, but the pressure must be overwhelming. She wanted to put her arms around him and assure him that everything would be alright. That he could handle it all. But that wasn't her place. Not anymore.

He was afraid she was thinking that he was becoming his father. He had that fear himself. But if Rory thought it, too, he might as well resign himself to his fate. The look on her face made him worry. God, if she had given up on him already…

She cleared her throat. "So…would you like to meet somewhere for lunch?"

"I can't…" _I'm having lunch with Grace_ didn't seem like the appropriate response. Not to that beautiful, hopeful face. He scrambled for an excuse. "Honor's in town for a couple more days, and I promised her we'd get together today."

Her face fell, but she hid it well. "Okay. I'll just wander around by myself."

"I'll be home around 4:00 if I play my cards right and don't run into too many well-wishers." His eyes met hers. "I'll see you then?" He didn't want her to be gone when he came home. Logan wouldn't be able to handle that.

"Sounds good."

He made his way to the door and turned to take one last look at her. Seeing her in his apartment was something he'd have to get used to. Correction: something he'd _love_ to get used to.

It was all so surreal. She was _finally_ here.

Rory gave him small smile and a wave goodbye.

For a man whose father had just died, his spirits were exceptionally high.

**

* * *

**

Rory rubbed her eyes. This was unbelievably difficult. Being with him without being _with_ him…

She straightened her frame and set her jaw, pushing those thoughts from her mind. She needed something to busy herself with…

Rory looked around. This place was huge. It _was_ a penthouse. She hadn't really gotten a look at things last night. She'd been tired and entirely focused on her host. She would tour the apartment.

She circled the main room, the one coming off the front door. It was certainly high-style, but cozy. It definitely wasn't as lush and over-the-top as it could have been. She knew that had been for her sake.

He'd had her in mind the whole time he was setting the place up—which he'd done over the phone from the East Coast.

The sleek leather couch was positioned next to a couple comfy loungers around a coffee table. A fancy flat screen television hung on the wall. The walls were bare; there was plenty of space for art or pictures. A giant window, overlooking much of downtown San Francisco, covered almost the entirety of the far wall.

She pressed her nose to the glass, looking below at the people going about their early-morning activities. Rory realized that a padded shelf jutted out just below the bottom of the window. She smiled to herself. A window seat. She'd always complained that their old apartment didn't have a window seat. Logan had finally become frustrated and dragged a kitchen chair in front of a window. She'd called it a cheap imposter and not eligible for proper comfort, which was a necessity for gazing out the window.

The pool table from their old apartment was to one side, prepped for play. Rory wondered if he played it much. Did he have a set of male friends here? A few guys to play pool with? Some buddies to drink with? She'd only noticed him with Colin and Finn at the wake. And as far as she knew both of them still resided on the East Coast.

She ambled back into the kitchen area, which was open to the main room. All the highest quality appliances were present. Not that they'd gotten much use. Not that they would have if she'd been living there. The counters were long and sleek, all marble. The room had a simple, spacious feel. She found it strangely uncluttered. He must have had some kind of maid service. There was a wine cabinet next to the fridge, and several of the cabinets were stocked with various types of fine liquor. This was Logan, after all.

A trash can stood next to the pantry door. It was enormous. She couldn't understand why it was so oversized. But then it hit her. She held out her arms, gauging the parameters. Yep. It was just the right size to allow a large pizza box to be pushed straight down. Logan had had to come to her aid countless times as she'd tried to force a pizza box into a too-small can.

She poked her head into the pantry and marveled at its large size. She stepped inside and something caught her eye on the far wall. What _was_ that?

Rory laughed to herself upon reaching the laminated papers that ran practically from ceiling to floor. Listed were the names and numbers of—well, of everywhere. Chinese, Italian, Thai, French, Indian, Mexican—any type of food she could ever want. There were hundreds of them. Below the phone on the wall next to this restaurant directory was a hanging bin, filled with takeout menus. He'd known she wouldn't want to cook.

She exited the pantry and, for the first time, noticed the small alcove in one corner of the kitchen. Rory was taken aback. It was a coffee nook. She knew instantly that it was. She'd always wanted a coffee nook. She'd told Logan she envisioned her perfect home with at least one cozy little coffee nook. He'd had it built for her.

For a brief second, she wondered if she was being absurd. Thinking he'd done all these things just for her. Logan liked takeout, too. Maybe the place came with a window seat and a coffee nook. Perhaps he'd found that trash can on the side of the street. But her instincts told her better. Logan was one of the most considerate people she knew, especially concerning her.

He would have had in mind that she would be a little uncomfortable about moving across the country with him, so he'd tailored the place to her every whim. There was no doubt of that in her mind.

And that brought her guilt. He had put so much effort into this place, and she had rejected him in favor of her 'options.' She had closed the door on the one man who had opened so many doors for her. Logan had opened her up to the world, made her live a life outside of studying, outside of the newspaper, outside of Stars Hollow, outside of anything she'd ever known.

Feeling slightly uncomfortable, Rory left the kitchen and made her way to the main hallway. There were four doors on her left, one on her right, and one facing her across the long corridor. Where to start? Where to start? She shrugged and chose the one on the right.

The room took her breath away. It was undoubtedly the largest room of the house. It must have been the size of their whole former apartment—and that hadn't been small by any means.

It was a library.

The built-in shelves ran floor-to-ceiling, and those were some damn high ceilings. The whole room seemed to be constructed of mahogany—though she knew nothing of wood. A ladder on a track was affixed to each wall of books. Rory climbed onto one and pushed herself down the wall. She _loved_ these things.

She surveyed some of the reading material that lined the shelves. There were leather bound books of every kind. She could sit in here and smell all day.

One large section of shelving was empty, just waiting to be filled with whatever she wanted.

Rory hopped off the ladder and took a seat one of the two giant, plush chairs in the middle of the room. She sank happily into the cushiony goodness and sighed contentedly. This room was heaven. The lengthy couch near the chairs looked equally comfortable, but Rory had no desire to ever rise again.

Until she saw the door in the corner of the library. Rory pulled herself up and entered what was clearly an at-home office.

On a table were multiple printers, fax machines, scanners, and copiers. File cabinets lined one wall, and when she peeked into one she saw folders of every color. A giant calendar hung next to a wall-mounted white board. A bulletin board was affixed to another wall, with various articles tacked to it. She noted that a couple were old ones of hers.

Two desks sat in the middle of the room, across from each other. Each had their own high-quality computers and multi-line telephones. The desks were at a certain angle, and she dismissed it as some sort of strange designer-forced feng shui. But when she sat at one, she jerked. The set up was the same as their desks had been at the _Yale Daily News_. His was not directly across from hers; rather, it was pushed to the left. Rory shook her head. This man thought of everything.

A little begrudgingly, Rory left the office and library, knowing there was still a lot of ground to cover. She crossed the hall and briefly surveyed the bathroom behind the first door. It was certainly beautiful for bathroom standards but nothing out of the ordinary.

She tried the next door and felt a little dim upon discovering it was the guest room she'd slept in night before. She couldn't really blame herself, though. Last night she'd been so wrapped up in her thoughts that she'd barely made into the room at all. She had changed into his clothes and gone straight to bed, trying to will herself to forget Grace's visit.

The room was fresh and beautiful. It was airy and there was plenty of natural light. Any guest would feel welcome here. The bed was large and comfortable, and the small side bathroom was filled with amenities. She'd been able to brush her teeth and put on some deodorant this morning. A little chest of drawers sat opposite the bed. An old, ratty television sat on top. She smiled to herself, recalling something Logan had once said, in a kidding manner.

"Guests should their place and always feel a little inferior. Intimidation or a tiny T.V.—those are the best strategies."

She left the cheery guest room and tried the next door. It was a laundry room—and it was twice the size of her room at home. There were at least twenty baskets and the washer and dryer looked as though they could handle large loads. An ironing board was set up in the corner. A shelf held fifteen different types of detergent. He knew she loved to do her own laundry.

Rory walked out of the laundry room and approached the final door on this side of the hall. The knob was stiff, as if it hadn't been opened in ages. She room was cobwebbed. She guessed that he hadn't been in this room at all, whatever it was. And apparently the maids hadn't been allowed, either. She ran a finger along the door frame and scrunched her nose at the grime. Rory flicked on the lights.

The room made an 'L,' and currently she couldn't see what was around the corner. Straight ahead was an expansive set of shelves, once again floor-to-ceiling. More books? Rory walked over to inspect and found movies—hundreds upon hundreds of movies.

She looked to her left and saw what she hadn't been able to see before. A giant screen and three rows of seats. It was a movie theater. There was a popcorn machine behind the last row of theateresque chairs. The walls had posters of a few of their favorite movies. And there, in a display case of all things, was a rocket. Just like the one he'd given her upon moving to London. The rocket was one of their most meaningful symbols; it was his most romantic gesture.

Rory spied another door off of the movie theater.

A swimming pool? A bowling alley? What would be next?

This room was small, somewhat cramped. There wasn't much room for anything but the lumpy couch and the outdated television/VCR combo. It was almost the exact setup of her living room in Stars Hollow. It was for the times she was really missing her home, her mother, her old life. There were a number of large framed photographs on the wall. One was of the gazebo in Stars Hollow. Another was her house. Her mother and Luke. Her father. Lane, Zach, and the twins. Colin and Finn. Honor and Josh.

She got it now. This was their escape. And it was a replication of her comfort zone. He didn't have anything like that for himself—he hated his own home. If one could even call it a home. Rory sniffed, holding her tears back. This was just too much…

Rory quickly collected herself. She still had one more door left. And the only room left had to be the master bedroom. It would hold much more significance. For it would have been _their_ bedroom. After seeing it she could break down all she wanted. Just not yet.

With a shaky breath, she turned and made her way to the place where Logan slept every night. She opened the door quickly, wanting it to be like ripping off a band-aid—quick and—well there was no getting around the pain. But when she saw the balcony doors on the other side of the room, she ran to them, happy to have something to keep her from having to look at what could have been.

She stepped out onto the balcony and took a deep breath, reveling in the warm temperature and early morning sunshine. This was made all the sweeter knowing it was currently snowing in Connecticut. The area was simple. A small table with a couple of chairs. And—she squinted.

Oh, God.

Shoved in the corner was a little potted avocado tree—dead from severe neglect. She ran a hand along the shriveled stalk.

So much for the balcony keeping her safe from the reality of her decision to reject the man she loved.

Rory left the balcony and strode into the master bathroom, still not prepared to take in the bedroom itself.

This was perhaps the largest bathroom she'd ever seen. The shower and the jacuzzi bath tub were huge. The sinks were marble, with gold fixtures. It was beautiful. She opened a couple of the cabinets on the wall, and stepped back, angry at herself.

What had she expected to find?

Not this.

Two toothbrushes. Cologne. Perfume. A hair straightener. A blow dryer. Tampons. A half-empty box of condoms.

Shame on her for forgetting that he had someone now. And she couldn't be angry. Not when she had shared a bed with Tristan over the last few months.

Rory closed her eyes briefly and then turned to enter Logan's bedroom. It was now or never.

She busied herself with the perimeter of the room. A large flat screen television was mounted on the wall, perfect for movies in bed. There was a desk covered with business papers. She guessed that he did his work at his office or in his bedroom—not in the home office attached to the library.

She came to a small closet and stepped in. It was filled with business suits; she had to search before she finally found a shelf for casual wear.

Rory headily realized that it smelled like him. She inhaled deeply, savoring his masculine aroma. She fought the tears that threatened to fall at just the scent of him.

Rory ran her hands along his clothing. He always looked so put together.

Next to his closet door was another. She opened it and gasped.

It was a walk-in closet, three times the size of the one next to it.

It was lined with mirrors, shoe racks, shelves, hangers, hampers, and anything a dream closet could ever warrant. And it was her dream closet.

Rory reentered his room and sat at his desk, overcome with emotion. He had done so many little things for her. How could he be so damn thoughtful? He loved her, that's how. But what was a manifestation of his devotion had turned into what must have been a constant and painful reminder of her rejection. It was now a veritable Rory and Logan relationship wasteland. And she guessed he'd already done his best to remove her presence from his home. She hadn't missed the empty picture frames around the place. And the lack of coffee—yes, she'd definitely noticed it that morning. He had an empty closet. There were _two_ desks in the study and _two_ sinks in the master bathroom. The theater was a whole room he couldn't bring himself to enter.

Rory tottered over to the bedside table. She picked up a picture of Logan, Colin, and Finn at a bar and smiled. There was another picture of him and Honor as kids, aboard a yacht that she thought might have been the one he'd sunk the year he'd taken off of college. There was one more picture there, and the frame was cracked. She had the same photo in her purse right now. Their first anniversary. She felt a tiny personal victory in the fact that he'd kept it on his bedside table all this time. She felt another such victory when she saw that the yellow submarine alarm clock she'd sent was in use. Humberto sat next to him—unplugged and adorned with a tiny sombrero and fake mustache.

Rory never would've thought he'd put her absurd gift to use. She'd assumed he'd thrown the new clock and Humberto's retirement attire in the trash can the minute he'd realized it was from her. She eyed Humberto again; to think that the president of Huntzberger Publishing Group had an alarm clock dressed in what she considered 'fiesta apparel.' Rory laughed out loud.

She sobered almost immediately. She took a deep breath, dreading what she had to do next. Rory forced her gaze to settle on the bed.

She'd been avoiding looking directly at it all this time.

It would have been their first bed shared as man and wife.

The frame was made of a sturdy, dark wood. The extravagant head board complimented the king sized bed gracefully. The 400 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets were a deep burgundy shade, tailored with a gold border.

She sat down stiffly.

Everything was silent. The atmosphere had become oppressive.

The pressure of the room was crushing her.

She couldn't breathe. She was being smothered by absolutely nothing.

It was her hell. It was what should have been. It was what could never be.

Rory put her head between her knees, taking deep breaths.

Even if—even if they somehow got back together now that she was—now that she was off the tour…how was she supposed to share this bed with him?

She wouldn't. She _couldn't_.

This was where he'd sex with all his floozies. And she was sure there had been floozies. There was no way that that Deena Tillman scandal she'd read of was his only indiscretion.

She and Logan hadn't been the ones to christen this bed—he'd probably shared it with some girl he didn't ever learn the name of.

He'd disregarded everything she stood for in this bed.

It had been eight months. Even if he'd been with a steady girlfriend the last six months, he'd still had two months to bed all of San Francisco. How many girls had he made moan between these sheets?

Twenty?

No. This was _Logan_.

More than twenty.

Rory rubbed the expensive sheets between her pointer finger and thumb and let the tears she'd been holding back flow freely. She didn't try to stop them this time.

She laid her head on his pillow. It smelled of perfume.

She bolted up and angrily threw the pillow across the room. She lay back down, her head on the mattress and sobs racking her body.

She cried all the tears she had in her, leaving his bedding thoroughly damp. When she could cry no more, Rory got shakily to her feet. She had to get out of there.

* * *

Rory, still clad in Logan's t-shirt and sweats, found the closest coffee shop and got some caffeine into her system, hoping it would make her feel better. When that didn't work, she called the one person that she could always talk to. Her mother. After informing Lorelai that she had gone to the funeral and spent the night—in a separate room of course—at Logan's, Rory described Logan's apartment in detail.

"Wow," was all her mother could say.

"It was hell, Mom."

"Hell has a movie theater? And a coffee nook? I knew I should have sent you to church school as a kid."

"Mom, I'm serious. His room practically killed me."

"And why do you think that is?"

"It was meant to be our room. Our bed. He's—he's been with countless others in there."

"So you were jealous?"

"Honestly, it wasn't that. I was sad. Sad for everything we've lost. Everything we could have had together. Everything we'll never have."

"There's no such thing as never, Rory. Logan loved you more than anyone, and that doesn't just go away. I'm sure if you told him that you made a mistake and that you still love him he—"

"No. No, he has a girlfriend now. A very pretty—pretty sounding, at least—girlfriend who loves him."

"And welcomed his ex with open arms?"

"She didn't know I was here."

"And why is that?"

"Because he didn't want his girlfriend to know that his ex was spending the night."

"But it was strictly platonic, you said so yourself. And why would he ask you to stay with him anyway? There are a hundred great hotels in San Francisco. If he wanted to he could easily set you up in any of them. Rory, he came to Stars Hollow for you. And then he went straight to Los Angeles when he found out that's where you were. He loves you, kid. And he wants you back."

Rory ached to believe her mother's words. But she couldn't bring herself to accept them. She wouldn't allow herself to hope.

"I don't know…And—and what about Tristan? I just left him there. I didn't tell him where I was going or why. I just said 'I have to leave. I'm sorry.' I can't believe that I did that. I deserve to be slapped in the face. And he deserves…well he deserves one hell of an apology."

"Yeah, he does. And you deserve to be happy. Listen, I'm not telling you to pick one of these guys over the other, because, honey, you already made that decision. But you have to choose who you stay with. Follow your head _and_ your heart." She paused. "Okay?"

"Okay."

**

* * *

**

When Rory entered the apartment at 5:00, she was surprised to find a couple of men in overalls making their way out.

"Logan?" she called out.

"In the bedroom," he responded.

She swallowed and strode slowly down the hall. She stood in the door frame and was startled by what she saw.

A new bed.

The mattress, the headboard, the frame—it was all new. The bed was higher now, and the sheets were white.

How could he have possibly known? And so fast?

Logan let out a sigh of relief upon seeing her. When he'd arrived home from work at 3:30 and found her gone his heart had sunk. But he'd prepared himself for the possibility of her leaving.

So he'd continued what he'd ordered himself to do that morning.

He was starting over. Again.

He'd broken up with Grace at lunch—and God, that had been a challenge. She'd taken his hand in hers and, with tears in her eyes, asked him why. Why was he doing this to her? She'd thought it was all because of his father's death. She'd professed her love to him and told him that she understood if he wanted time apart to deal with his grief. But he'd had to let her know that he didn't just want time apart. He had to bring himself to crush all of her hope for them and tell her about Rory.

He shook himself, not wanting to dwell on the break up anymore. After he'd returned to the office, he'd ordered a new bed to be delivered as soon as possible. For as much Rory's benefit as his. He didn't want her to see the bed that should have been theirs, and he didn't want to be reminded of everything (everyone) he'd done in her absence.

So when he'd opened his front door and called out her name, only to be answered with silence, his gut felt as though it had been ripped out. He'd poured himself a drink and waited for the men to arrive with his new bed.

When they'd finally finished the set-up and he was surveying his new bed for the first time, he'd heard her voice and the hopelessness weighing him down had lifted.

She'd stood in the door frame, her eyes wide.

"Um, hi," she squeaked. This gesture had made her nervous. She had such conflicting feelings about all this.

"Hey. You're back."

"Yep."

An awkward silence ensued.

"So…how was work?"

"Not anything I'd ever want to repeat. But, hey, then there's tomorrow. And the next day. And the next day."

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Everything will ease up in a couple of weeks when people get used to Mitchum's permanent absence and my permanent—uh—presence."

She half-smiled at him, but her eyes remained grim. "Good."

Silence again.

"Rory…do you want to have dinner tonight? Go out, I mean? You still haven't seen much of the city."

"Yeah. Yes. That sounds great."

"Alright."

"Alright."

"Good."

"Yes."

She turned awkwardly on her heel and made her way to the guest room, wondering what on earth she was going to wear. The stained green dress from yesterday wouldn't do. Not for tonight.

She had a date with Logan Huntzberger.

**

* * *

**

**AN: Hey, I hope you liked this chapter—I didn't do spell check or even reread it, so I'm sure there were plenty of mistakes, and the flow was probably a little weird. But I was just too time-strapped to go back over this. I promise the next chapter will be more polished, but that could mean that it will take a little more time. Especially if I don't get many reviews…(hint hint, nudge nudge) **


	14. Baseball…Eskimos…Paris Gellar…Dinosaurs…

Rory paced the guest room, nervously biting her thumb nail. Going out to Logan and asking him if they could maybe-possibly-please hit the mall for a quick dress purchase wasn't something she wanted to do. She could climb out the window, scale the building, and sneak out to a boutique…and beg the salesperson to take an IOU? No, that definitely wasn't option.

And then a thought struck her. She crept warily to the closet, anticipation building involuntarily in her chest. Rory placed her hand on the knob, wondering what she might find on the other side of this door.

With Logan, it could be anything.

She took a deep breath and slowly pulled the door towards her.

And she was faced with nothing but an empty closet.

"Oh, well that was anticlimactic," she muttered, bemused at her earlier expectation.

"Well, I'm only one man."

She jumped and turned to see Logan standing at the doorframe, a smirk on his face.

She smiled, but then her face became serious. Rory nodded her head toward the walls, alluding to the entire apartment.

"I'd forgotten."

He looked away, embarrassed by her words. He'd done it all for her, and knowing that Rory realized that made his stomach stir.

"So you were expecting an array of fine gowns bursting out of your closet?"

"Wouldn't be the first time." She grinned.

"Seeing as I came home and you were gone, I didn't think you'd be coming back at all. So, sorry I didn't stock your closet with formal wear this time."

Rory shifted uncomfortably. She couldn't help but notice the hint of bitterness behind his joking tone.

"I'm sorry. I should have at least written you a note…"

She bit her lip and scratched her arm lightly. Their eyes met.

Logan sighed. He was already alienating her over nothing. God, he'd wanted her here with him for so long and now…What the fuck was wrong with him?

"Well, you can't go out in that. Though I wouldn't mind too much. You still look great."

She smiled, grateful that his banter-like tone was back. "I was out all day in this."

"And I'm sure the men of San Francisco are all the happier for it."

She crinkled her nose at him. A small smile finally appeared on his face.

"Come on, let's go get you something great."

He held out his hand to her.

Rory stared blankly at it.

Logan quirked his eyebrows. "You gonna leave me hanging?"

Rory tried to collect her thoughts. It was just his hand. Holding hands was nothing. Less than nothing. But it would be the first contact they'd have since hugging at the funeral. She took a shaky breath and silently reached out and grasped it.

It wasn't some huge, earth-moving shock that ran through her body. The contact with his warm hand brought her a sense of familiarity, of peace, of contentment. It was like coming home after being away for years, for _decades_. It felt right.

Relief flooded Logan's body when she finally took his outstretched hand. He squeezed fingers lightly and pulled her out the door.

**

* * *

**

Stepping out of the shop and into the warm night air, Rory marveled at the fact that she was going on a date with Logan in San Francisco when just the other day she had been harried by work and sleeping in a two-star motel…with Tristan. She stood at the top of the stoop, waiting for Logan to join her outside. They'd gotten her a dress and then continued on to buy a few daytime outfits. She felt a little awkward about him paying for everything, but he'd insisted. She looked over her shoulder at him as he came through the door, bags in tow.

Logan couldn't believe how much his life had changed in the past week. His father was dead. He was the president of the Huntzberger Publishing Group. Rory was a part of his life again. He thought so anyway. He hoped so anyway. Logan surveyed her frame as he joined her outside. She looked absolutely gorgeous. Her simple black dress was cut in a way that showcased Rory's an expanse of Rory's creamy white skin. He longed to reach out and touch her.

As he looked her over, Rory bit her lip, a little nervous. What if—what if he didn't find her attractive anymore? What if he thought she'd lost her wit or her sincerity? What if he didn't love her? It had been so long since she'd been around him that she'd forgotten how to do so, and doubts about herself and the two of them collectively were starting to surface.

He ripped his eyes away from her and cleared his throat. "Ready?"

"Are we finally going to dinner now? Or are you going to drag me to another store?"

"You needed clothes. Unless you really did want to wear my sweats around the city?"

"Yes, I needed clothes, but I really didn't need this much." She hesitated, then moved forward and kissed his cheek, the shopping bags rustling between them. "Thank you." They shared a smile. "Now let's go. I'm starved!"

Logan offered his arm. She shifted the bags in her left hand to her right and cautiously took hold of his proffered limb.

As she linked arms with him, he realized that his palms were suddenly sweaty.

She couldn't believe how dry her throat had become.

Rory and Logan on a date. _A date._

They started forward, and, in her new heels, Rory tripped immediately and toppled down the stone steps, dragging Logan with her.

They lay in jumbled mass of bodies, bags, boxes, and clothing strewn about the sidewalk.

Logan laughed as he pushed himself to his knees. "Geez, Ace. Talk about starting out on the wrong foot. Restarting, that is." He cringed. Was that the right word choice? Were they really restarting? Damn, he needed to talk to Rory about what this night really was.

Rory's mind had gone into overdrive. He'd called her Ace. God, how she'd missed his pet name for her. The whole time she'd been in town, he hadn't referred to her as anything but Rory. And she had been painfully aware of that fact. She understood that he was not yet comfortable with her presence. But now? She grinned. _He'd called her Ace_. This was a very good sign.

"What?" She hadn't realized that Logan had been talking to her.

"I asked if you were alright."

She'd heard him this time, but she couldn't process his words. She was too preoccupied with the euphoric, rapturous feelings swelling in her chest. "What?"

"Are you okay?"

Of course she was okay! _He'd called her—_

"Oh…" The pain had finally registered, and Rory clutched her ankle. There was definitely something wrong there.

He saw her grip her ankle and wince in pain. He also saw her quickly try to hide her injury and force a smile onto her face.

"I'm okay. I'm okay."

"Rory, your ankle—"

"Really, not a scratch. Look for yourself."

"I can't. Your hand is covering it."

"Logan, I'm okay!"

"Rory…"

"We're going out." Her voice was resolute. "I'm okay," she repeated.

He sighed and got to his feet. "Alright." He reached down to offer his hand and helped her stand. Rory bit the inside of her cheek to keep from groaning in pain as she tried putting weight on her injured ankle. Logan kept his arm around his ex (?), supporting her.

"See, just fine." She looked at him apprehensively. "We're still going to dinner, right?"

"Of course we are."

He stooped to gather her things and then raised his hand to hail a taxi. The cab pulled up to the curb; Logan loaded all of the bags into the trunk and then helped ease Rory into the backseat. He slid in next to her.

"Hospital, please," he instructed the cabby.

She pouted at him. "D'oh."

**

* * *

**

Well, she'd managed to thoroughly ruin that one.

Rory glared at her ankle, which was currently propped up on a pillow on the couch. She'd sprained the damn thing. Her stupid life on the tour bus had gotten her accustomed to flats. If only she hadn't been so ambitious with those 3-inchers right off the bat.

It was too late now. Her ankle was sprained—not too badly, but enough so that she'd need to be on crutches for about a week. Rory cursed to herself. Logan had been amazing, as usual. Their first date had turned into waiting hours in the hospital before finally getting in to a doctor who spent a total of ten minutes with Rory and sending them on their way. They'd gotten back to Logan's after midnight, he'd made them Ramen Noodles for dinner, and then he'd teased her mercilessly for cartwheeling down _stone_ steps and pulling him down while she did so. She was sure that she'd look back on the evening with amusement, but as of now she was slightly mortified and extremely angry.

It just wasn't fair. Tonight was supposed to be _perfect_. They were supposed to hash everything out and reconnect and, well, get back together and live happily ever after.

The shifting of cushions as Logan sat next to her interrupted Rory's sulking.

"I'm about ready to turn in. Would you like help to your room?"

"I don't need help." She stood on one foot and hopped to her crutches to prove it to him. He rose to join her as she made her way slowly toward the guest room.

"I know that, but it's time for some major payback after what I went through with my recovery from the accident."

"I wasn't that overprotective."

"If I recall, you instructed Doyle to go into the bathroom with me in case I should feel faint."

"Well, your injury was much more severe than mine!" she defended herself. She stopped herself from arguing further when she saw the wide smirk on his face. "Oh, never mind. I am definitely not fond of crutches. They hurt my armpits. I wish I had a cane like you did. You looked really sophisticated."

"And really lopsided, as I remember."

They'd reached her door.

"Need any help undressing?" he asked cheekily.

Rory tried to swat at his arm but almost lost her balance in the process. Logan reached out to steady her.

As he slowly removed his hands from her arms, Logan gave a small smile. "Thanks for an interesting night, Rory. I'll see you tomorrow morning."

"Will Count Chocula be there again?"

"I was considering bringing Captain Crunch into the mix."

"I think could accept Captain Crunch."

"Seeing as it's my place and you're the guest, you'll have to."

"Right, right. You've got to make the guest know her place."

"Exactly."

Logan's flicked up to Rory's as his mind raced. How could he end the night properly? He'd wanted everything to perfect, but things hadn't worked out that way. Should he wait till they could try again…?

No.

He didn't want to wait anymore.

Logan leaned forward and let his lips skim hers.

He pulled away and whispered, "Goodnight."

Kissing her, even if it had been so fleetingly, had been like falling, lightly, lazily, ecstatically.

His face was still close to hers. She breathed him in.

He rested his forehead on hers, his eyes closed. Rory closed her eyes, too.

"Good date," she whispered.

"Promise?"

She pressed her lips to his gently, almost shyly—as if for the first time.

His hands rested softly on her hips as he responded to her kiss, still keeping it light. He didn't want to push for anything tonight.

The kiss finally ended and Logan sighed heavily. "Goodnight," he breathed.

"You already said that." Her remarkable blue eyes were a shade darker than usual.

"This time I mean it." He turned to go down the hall to his own room. "See you tomorrow morning with Captain Crunch."

"Count on it," she called after him.

Rory quietly entered her room and closed the door, leaning back on it.

She relived the last few minutes and sighed contentedly, bringing her fingers to her lips.

This was definitely progress.

**

* * *

**

"Logan, you don't have to stay here on my account. You told me yesterday that they really need you at work."

"Well, _they _will just have to get over it. If I'm not here, how are you going to get around, Crutchy?" He cocked an eyebrow at her.

"Crutchy? That's dumb."

"I think it has a certain ring to it."

"It's totally uninspired, and it doesn't even—" She stopped at the bemused look on his face. She sighed, letting this one go…for now. "Really, I'm a good hobbler. Great, even. You saw me get breakfast for myself this morning."

"Yes, and I saw that it took you fifteen minutes to get your cereal poured."

"If I hadn't dropped my spoon five of those minutes would've been shaved right off."

"If you'd have let me get your spoon for you or make your cereal for you altogether—"

"I refuse to become dependent on someone else."

"Trust me, I know that." Logan bristled briefly at her words but shook his ill feelings away. His jaw tightened. "Rory, just let me help you. Let me be here for you."

She sighed. "Okay. But if you get a call and find out that you really do have a ton of work to do…"

"That's the charm of having a home office."

"I saw that. It's amazing, Logan."

His eyes held hers. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Well…Honor's swinging by at 11:30. I have to meet with the lawyers to go over the final terms of the will at noon. And then we're headed to a final family luncheon before they Shira and Elias head back to Hartford and Honor and Josh go to New York. I'd invite you to lunch, but…"

"Your family will be there."

"Exactly."

"Thank you for sparing me."

"If only I could do the same for myself. But, alas, it is too late for me. So what shall we do today, Crutchy? Lounge? Laze? Loaf? Loll?"

"They all sound fantastic. Let's find us some no-quality daytime television and settle in for some mockery."

"Sounds great."

Ten minutes into spiel on bagless vacuums on the Home Shopping Network, Logan's home phone, cell, and blackberry simultaneously went off. Rory shooed him into his office so he do the work she sensed he needed to do.

As Logan headed down the hall, he covered his phone with a hand and looked back at her. "If you need _anything_, call out to me. Seriously, a glass of water, help to the bathroom, a foot rub—don't hesitate."

"Logan, I'll be fine. Like you'd hear me in this place, anyway. I—I do think I'd like to switch to the library around 11:00—that's when _The Price Is Right_ is on, and I don't think I can be near a TV when Drew Carey is out there doing Bob Barker's job. Is—is it okay if I switch to the library?"

**"**Okay? Rory, that room is yours."

She swallowed; Rory had no idea how to respond to that.

"But sure, I'll plan on coming out to get you up at 11:00. But call me if you need anything before then."

"Thanks, Logan."

**

* * *

**

Logan made his way into the main room at 11:00 to see Rory glaring at the television with disgust.

"Your TiVo selections are pathetic! You've become a boring old fart."

"Bite your tongue. Before I bite it for you," he added ruefully.

She smiled. "Tsk. Tsk. CNN, 60 Minutes, CSPAN, the History Channel. You're a guy. Where's all your porn?"

"That goes on the TV in the bedroom," he joked. Logan ran his hand through his hair.

Something had been nagging at him. He had to get it off his chest.

"Rory, I know this is coming out of nowhere, but I just—I have to know. Did you just come here because of my father's death?"

Rory looked at her hands in her lap, really thinking out her answer. "I think it was a catalyst. It woke me up. Got me moving. If you'll remember correctly, I called you, sent you a message, and visited your office. So I really did want to see you. Mitchum's death—well, it was why I came back to San Francisco. You and your reaction to Mitchum's death would be more accurate. But the reason I stayed has nothing to do with your father. It has to with us."

Logan nodded silently, mulling over her words.

"Oh, you taped the last Obama rally!"

He watched her watch Barrack's speech with rapt attention.

"I miss it." It seemed as though she'd forgotten his presence and was speaking to herself.

Seeing her there, missing her old life—her old life that she'd chosen over him, what she'd left him for…it was enough to drive him mad.

Logan tried to keep temper in check, but felt his anger boiling over.

He clenched his fists, willing himself to calm down. He couldn't believe it. He'd thought all his anger had faded away into a dull ache—yearning to be with her. He was wrong.

And now all of it was getting dredged up again—the hurt, the heartache, the rejection, the embarrassment, the shame, the feeling of no self-worth whatsoever.

"Why don't you go back?" he mumbled gruffly.

Rory was oblivious to his mood; her eyes were still glued to the TV. She shook her head slightly. "It wasn't right for me. Or I wasn't right for it."

"So—so you just showed up here because you were burnt out on your career?" His voice was rough. "You found out that big wide world you were so excited about wasn't all it was cracked up to be so you came crawling back here because you knew I'd drop everything for you?" He was yelling now. Logan could feel his rationale slipping away, but there was nothing he could do. "Rory that's not fair. If you're just here until you get back on your feet…Leave. Just leave. Don't do this to me—get me used to having you around if you're planning on running off again to…to follow the circus or something."

She felt guilty at his words. But he couldn't talk to her like that.

"Logan, I loved that job. Sure it wasn't what I thought it would be. It was a thousand times worse. And a thousand times better. It gave me everything I needed for a great future career. Experience, connections, a respectable portfolio. And I left it. I also left a great man who loves me. I had that wide open world, and no, it wasn't all it was cracked up to be—because you weren't a part of it. I love you. I love you, and without you, I don't want some great career. That wide open world is desolate and gray for me if you're not in it. I need you. I _need_ you."

"It's not that easy, Rory."

"Why? Why not?"

"You hurt me!"

She was taken aback by the emotion written on his usually poised face.

"You were all I had. I'd graduated from Yale, I'd left HPG, I'd taken a huge risk in starting a new company, I was moving to San Francisco. I was changing my entire life. And I was doing it all for you. To show you that I'd grown up and that I could live in the real world. And I was willing to do it, eager even. Eager to leave everything I'd known and forge a new path with you by my side. But then—but then you chose your career over me, knowing that you could have easily gotten a job in San Francisco. So I came here without a single contact. I arrived at the home I had so meticulously planned out for _us_ without you. I was alone in the world. _Alone_, Rory! You had your Lane, and your Paris, and your mother, and your whole fucking _town_. And I had an empty apartment and no dignity left. You crushed me. And I don't know if I can forgive you. You made a decision that affected the both of us, and I wasn't high up enough on your pro/con list to tilt the scales. Knowing that I wasn't enough for you—that hurt the most. You're the only person I've ever truly loved. And you rejected me."

"You think that was _easy_ for me? You think I was happy about saying no? I was ripping out my own heart. Because it was what I thought I should do. Not what I wanted to do. Logan, all my life I was taught to be independent of men, that I didn't need them. From three years on, I was Ivy League bound and a reporter-to-be. In my head, going with you would be throwing everything for which I worked so diligently away."

"Why? Why do you talk like marrying me would be giving up your dream?! I would never ask you to do that! You know I would only be supportive of you. If anything, I could help you further your career. There's a deeper reason you said no, Rory. There has to be. It was because of me, and I deserve to know exactly what it was."

"Logan, stop this! I love you. I don't know how many other ways to say that. I fucked up. I know that now. I knew that then! I got _scared_. I got scared because every relationship I've ever known has ended with people getting hurt. I didn't want marriage to change how we treated each other. But I didn't want to lose you either. If I could go back in time I would. If I had known that you'd want to end things rather than continue a long distance relationship, my response would've been completely different. But now? With you like this. Screaming at me, blaming me. Now, I don't know." There were tears in her eyes.

She awkwardly got to her feet and began to retreat to her room.

"Goddamnit, Rory!"

There was rage in his face. She didn't have the right to walk out on him. Her tears wouldn't work as a deterrent. Not this time—not when he was in the right, at least partially, anyway.

If they didn't get this out now, they never would.

"Hey!"

She didn't turn around.

He caught up to her quickly and grabbed her arm. She twisted and tried to jerk away from him, hate seething in her eyes.

He spun her around hard, and she felt her knee buckle as her ankle took the weight of her body. She fell into him, and he caught her in his arms.

"Let go of me." She was trying to pull away.

"We need to talk."

"No!" She hit at his chest, struggling against him.

"Stop it!"

"_Let go_!"

"_Rory_!"

He tried desperately to still her flailing arms. God, she was making him so angry. She wouldn't just sit down and talk to him. She wouldn't even give him that courtesy.

"Logan, if you don't let me go this instant, I'll—"

He crushed his lips to hers, partly to make her stop and partly because he just damn wanted to.

He was still angry, and he let his battered pride, the scorn, and all his dormant fury pour out through the kiss. He was sure he was bruising her lips.

This kiss was not at all tender. Not loving. Not gentle. Rough. Harsh.

Logan felt himself stiffening unbelievably quickly as she began to respond to the kiss. She matched his intensity and returned his sentiments equally. Both were working out their issues through their lips.

All the ill will, the doubts, the animosity was flowing between them.

He was attacking her lips, barely allowing either of them time to breathe. Logan groaned as she pulled his hips in closer.

Rory was pressing herself against him, unconsciously trying to relieve the pressure growing within her.

Logan lightly bit the skin of her neck and started moving against her.

They had entered into mock intercourse, rubbing against each other frantically. It was animal-like.

Then it lost all meaning. Their anger wilted simultaneously. There was still no rational thought behind their actions. But it had become entirely physical, not emotional.

She wasn't willing to talk. He didn't have to have talk. Not now anyway. True, her mind was what he needed. But it was her body that he _wanted_. And instant gratification was something he'd become accustomed to in his time here.

She had wanted for him so many nights over their long months apart. And the sensations he instilled in her body made Rory forget about everything else—everything that had had her so upset just moments ago.

His rhythmic movement against her set a pace that Rory matched, the beat of his thrusts pulsating throughout her body.

They were both fully clothed, and the sound of fabric rustling clouded his mind with lust even more.

The friction they were creating was astounding; there were multiple layers of clothing between them, but she could barely tell.

Her face was flushed with desire and her eyes dark with lust.

His breath on her neck was strong and hot.

He brought her thigh up to his hip and she wrapped her leg around his waist, letting her injured ankle rest at his other side.

The noise they made was loud and guttural. Her chest became heavier and his breathing became faster as he worked up to a frenzied tempo, steady and driven.

Logan already felt as if he was within her; he could imagine perfectly from memory that he was.

He saw her eyes close and her body tense. Rory clutched his shoulders, digging her nails into his shirt.

She cried out as she came, hard. She shook, a deep-throated moan escaping her lips, and then went lax in his arms.

Rory had just experienced one of the most powerful orgasms she'd ever had, and they were both fully clothed.

She would take care of that.

Rory rested her hand on his belt, beginning to unbuckle it.

The doorbell rang.

She heard Logan swear under his breath.

"Logaaaaan!" Honor's voice came over the intercom.

Rory bit her lip; it was already swollen from his ministrations. Their eyes met, and could see the minute she registered what they'd done—almost done. Her face went red, even more so than it had been earlier, and she fled back to room as best she could.

"Rory!" he called after her.

"Logan, Granddad's waiting in the car. We need to go. _Now_!"

He groaned. "Rory, wait."

Logan heard door close.

He looked around helplessly. He wanted to go to Rory. He knew he should he go with Honor. Logan looked down. He still had a huge erection, and it was definitely noticeable.

"Logan!" Honor knocked loudly.

Logan shook out his arms. He needed a cold shower. But there was no time for that.

He paced, a little painfully, in front of the door. He needed to quell this thing, and fast.

_Think boring, non-sex-related thoughts_, he instructed himself.

Baseball…Eskimos…Paris Gellar…Dinosaurs…

Shit this was a hard one (no pun intended). Okay now was not the time for wit.

Honor was ringing the doorbell in rapid succession.

_The Good Shepherd_…wrist watches…Crime and Punishment…knees—Rory's knees… Rory's hips…Rory's waist…Rory's…_not_ _helping_!

He swallowed, trying to get his mind back on track.

Ice fishing…the Air and Space Museum…_Flipper_…lamps…Clue…road kill…

"Logan, if you're not out here in 30 seconds, I'm busting this door down. Well, I'm calling someone to bust this door down, anyway."

_Shit_!

Calculus…_Full House_…the United Nations…World War II…jaundice…Finn—okay that did it.

Honor pounded on the door again.

"I'm coming!" He cringed at his choice of words.

**

* * *

**

**AN: Alright, I was going to continue this chapter, but it seemed long enough, and I wanted to get this posted. Next week, I'm going on a cruise, so there won't be much writing happening. Since I cut this chapter, I'll probably be able to get an update up by Friday to tide you over for my absence. Don't ****worry,**** Tristan will be dealt with in the next chapter!**


	15. Making Up is Hard to Do

His meeting earlier that day had gone about as he'd expected. All of Mitchum's funds were transferred to Shira. His properties in Venice, Paris, and Martha's Vineyard had been left to Honor, and the New York penthouse, the villa in Aspen, and the house in the Virgin Islands were Logan's now. Shira had been a little too cheery throughout the ordeal and Honor had been a little too morose. Logan had kept his mind and face blank. It was best to remain totally detached form the whole proceeding. He didn't care to feel any emotion for the rest of the day—this morning had filled his quota for the month quite nicely.

He'd been called into the office during lunch due to a 'major crisis' that had turned out to be nothing but a spat between the editor and one of his more unruly staff writers. He'd been a little angry at being called over something so trivial, but as president, he figured he'd be getting a lot of false alarms and unnecessary phone calls. While he was in the office, he'd decided to finish up some last minute paperwork.

He hadn't spoken to Rory since he'd left the apartment with Honor. For all he knew, she was long gone—she was the type to get embarrassed easily and flee when the situation was too uncomfortable. And he'd been so close to trusting her again…if she was gone…

Well, it was better not to think of that at all.

Logan spun himself in a circle in his swivel chair, silently ordering himself to get back to work within the next ten or forty minutes. His phone rang and he hesitated, not really wanting to deal with anyone at the moment.

His secretary Molly was out of the office—she was becoming a grandmother today. So he was taking his own calls. With a sigh he picked up the phone. Later he would wish he hadn't.

He fought the overwhelming desire to greet the caller with a high pitched "Mr. Huntzberger's office. This is Tilly. Mr. Huntzberger is away from his desk."

"Logan Huntzberger," he said in a voice a little deeper than usual—he had to entertain himself somehow.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

His brow furrowed at the unfamiliar voice. "What?"

"There has to be something fucked up in your head, you selfish jackass."

"Excuse me?" He was ten seconds away from slamming the phone into its cradle.

"You heard me. You're playing the sad little orphan boy and keeping her away from what she's supposed to be doing."

Logan took a minute to process the man's words and his face fell into an angry scowl. "_Dugrey_?"

"Yes, nice deductive reasoning there, Mr. President, sir."

"Oh, that's right, I'm the _president_ of the most powerful media conglomerate in the country, and I don't really have the time to chat right now so I guess I'll see you at the next big Hartford Christmas party."

"Oh, what a shame. I won't be attending. I don't play the part of my parents' lap dog and I don't plan on ever returning to Connecticut if I can possibly help it. Unless Obama takes me there, that is. Do you know thrill of following a presidential candidate around the nation and reporting with the best of them? I'd guess not, you don't write—just sit in Daddy's old chair clapping your hands."

"I can crush you with the dial of a phone. You seem to forget who has the power here. Dugrey, you're working in _my_ field, and I can have you out on the streets, jobless and shamed, in ten minutes. And right now, I'm not going to need much goading to do so.

"Well, I'm shaking in my booties. Listen, I don't have all day, so let's get down to business. You are not allowed to keep Rory up there away from her job—her _passion_—to play your own sick game of console the poor grieving boy.

"You want to come up here and collect her? Rory came to San Francisco on her own. She made that choice—I didn't call and beg for her presence. She's here because she wants to be. If you couldn't keep her occupied on your little bus, that's tough luck."

"Rory pities you; that's as far as it goes. That's just how Rory is; she cares about everyone. She felt sorry for you, and she felt obligated to go and see if you were okay. But there's no way she's happy up there—not working. She _loved_ this job. You have to let her go."

"I'm not keeping her here. She can leave if she wants to."

"You know, I don't think she can. She feels so guilty for breaking your heart that she standing by your side till you get back on your feet. She _lost her job_ because of _you_. And Rory can't have taken getting fired from her first real job well. She needs someone to talk to, someone rational. And that's just not you this week, is it, Huntzberger? I need to talk to her."

"Hey, go right ahead and give her a call on her cell."

"She's not answering."

"Hmm, well isn't that funny?"

"She thinks I'll be angry at her is all. And I'm not. I understand. But I'm worried about her. She needed that job more than she knew."

Logan bristled at the sincerity of his voice. Tristan really was worried. And that made Logan feel for the guy, which pissed him off.

"She's fine," Logan said gruffly.

"You know, somehow, I just don't believe that."

"Well, you'll have to take my word for it then."

"Please, just ask her to give me a call."

"And if I don't?"

"You'd be an extreme asshole who doesn't care about her."

"Don't _ever_ say I don't care about her."

"Just tell her to call me."

The dial tone droned loudly in Logan's ear. He slammed the phone down and groaned in frustration.

* * *

When the phone rang again an hour later, Logan eyed it warily, unwilling to go through another bout with Tristan Dugrey. Why the fuck didn't this phone have caller id?

He sighed and picked it up, knowing the call could be business related.

"Logan Huntzberger."

"Oh, um, hi."

His heart leapt at the quiet voice on the line.

"Hey, Rory." His voice was unbelievably soft, like if he spoke too loud she'd spook and hang up.

"I—" she cleared her throat and spoke louder, "I was just making sure you were okay. You didn't come hom—come back and I just wanted to make sure you hadn't…been abducted or something."

"No abductions today. I'm sorry, I should have called you. I've been at the office for a couple hours, and I'll probably be heading out in about thirty minutes."

"Alright."

They were both silent, trying to think of something to say.

"How's work going? Are you getting the hang of being president?"

"It's definitely a challenge. I think I'll get into the swing of things soon, I just need to focus, which has been difficult recently."

"Right. Focus. Be a manatee."

"Explanation, please."

"Manatees don't turn their heads."

"Right, so they're focused on what's in front of them. I should've known."

"Yes, you should have."

They were silent again.

"Umm…Logan?"

"Yeah, Ace?"

He heard her take a deep breath. "What happened today…what—what does it mean?"

He thought over her words and tried to do a quick analysis of his own feelings. "I know what I want it to mean. What matters is what you want."

"I don't know." Her voice had become quiet again.

"Well, you're going to have to decide." He closed his eyes, willing himself to say what he knew he had to say. "Rory, Tristan called me here."

"_What_? Why would he do that?"

"Because apparently you haven't been answering his calls."

"And he should have taken the hint! Calling you was so inappropriate! I can't believe him!"

"He wants you to call him."

"Call him? If he thinks I'm ever speaking to him again, he's got another think coming!"

Logan ran a hand over his face as Rory continued to fume about her ex over the phone. Whether or not he was going to encourage her to call the man was hinged on one thing in his mind. And that one thing was something he did not want to ask her about.

But he knew that he had to do it—for himself, _to_ himself. That didn't keep him from being ashamed when he interrupted her rant with a question.

"Did—Rory, did you two…"

God, he couldn't even get the words out.

But she'd picked up on his somber tone and had made the connection to his real question.

She sighed, not wanting to hurt him. But he'd asked. And she'd have to tell him that she'd slept with Tristan. "Yes."

He swallowed painfully and shut his eyes tight. Rory had been with another man…

"I won't ask you the same…"

Hearing the pain in her voice was much worse than knowing she'd partaken in the act with someone else. He'd partaken with scores of someone elses. And that must kill her—like knowing about Dugrey killed him.

He sighed, wishing all their recent conversations didn't have to be so tense. "Call Tristan."

"No."

"Call him," he choked out. "Rory, I know what it's like to be without you. It—it's the worst pain there—" He groaned, not able to articulate his thoughts. "Call him."

"Listen, Logan. This is none of your business. Just leave it alone."

"Rory, _please_." His voice was harsh now. "Don't make me ask you again—because, honestly, I hate that guy with everything that I am, and I don't _want_ you to call him. But you should. For you and for him. Please, just give him a call. Even he deserves that."

The phone clicked in his ear as he was hung up on for the second time that day.

* * *

Rory wiped at her eyes, embarrassed to be crying (_still_) in a public place. This had to be one of the strangest days in her life. First the idyllic morning with Logan filled with breakfast banter, then the heated fight they'd had, followed by…whatever that had been. And then there was the hour she'd spent in her room, frantic thoughts about what he'd said, what she'd said, and what they'd done rushing through her head. Eventually, she'd realized Logan wasn't back at six o'clock, and had called his office. They'd fought about Tristan.

Logan had actually asked her to call him.

And they'd argued, but she'd known he was right. Tristan deserved a call. She had just left him, with little to no explanation. One minute she was at Tristan's side, the next, she was in a funeral parlor, watching Logan standing before his father's casket.

So she had left Logan's apartment, knowing she couldn't speak to Tristan in the apartment her ex had created for her. Rory had gone to the only place she knew she'd find comfort—a nearby library. She'd sat in a deserted corner, her crutches leaned against the wall, and called Tristan, scared to death of what he would say.

She'd explained to him why she'd left and why she couldn't return. She'd told him that she loved Logan. That she'd never stopped loving Logan.

Tristan had pleaded with her to be reasonable. He'd pointed out that Logan would be too busy running HPG to spend any time with her or really care for her, like he would be able to do. He'd stated that she couldn't get a job like the one she'd given up anywhere in San Francisco. He'd reminded her that she'd already rejected the other man once and that she'd miss her mother and all of her ties on the East Coast. He'd told her that she was making too many sacrifices.

But she'd quietly refuted his words. She'd told him that she finally felt right.

And he'd accepted his words, told her that he would always cherish the time they'd had together, and then he'd wished her good luck.

That had sent her into a spiral of guilty tears. Why couldn't he have screamed at her? Insulted her? Done something?

So for the last few hours she'd thought furiously of everything she was giving up. Of everything she would never experience. And it scared her. But not as much as going back to a life without Logan scared her.

She'd made a million mental pro/con lists in her head. And the flow of tears streaming down her cheeks had remained almost constant.

Rory buried her face in the arm of the large plush chair she was sitting in, but raised it almost immediately when she heard footsteps. No one had entered this section in the last three hours.

Her breath caught in her throat when Logan approached her, his hands in his pockets.

Rory pushed her hair behind her ears, slightly embarrassed at her disheveled appearance and red, bleary eyes.

"How'd you find me?"

"Easy. I checked all the coffee shops on the block and then I followed my instincts."

She gave a small smile. "Well, took you long enough."

"There are a lot of coffee shops."

"Only six. That took you three hours?"

"I've been two rows over—at the cluster of tables by the window—for the last two hours and forty-five minutes."

"What?" She was at a loss for words.

"You, more than anyone, need time to process. And I needed to catch up on my _Gossip Girl_," he joked lightly. He smirked, but then his face became serious. "Come home."

Her eyes widened at the use of the word 'home.'

"Logan, I—"

"Come home, Rory."

She stood from her chair, knees feeling weak. "Okay."

* * *

The whole way home they hadn't said a word to each other. It was inexplicably awkward between them again. Logan didn't know what she'd talked to Tristan about, though he was fairly sure that she had, indeed, given the man a call. Rory was afraid to tell him that she'd spent the evening thinking about what she'd be giving up for him—she'd have to tell him that she'd _chosen_ him. And she was feeling far too timid to say anything of the sort. At least for now.

They entered the apartment and stared at each other, very uncomfortably.

Rory cleared her throat. "I think I'm going to go to bed." She really was exhausted—crying for three hours straight would do that to a person.

He nodded slowly. "Okay. I've still got some papers to look over." He'd left the office immediately after getting off the phone with her, and he hadn't finished his work.

They turned and parted without another word.

* * *

When he'd finally finished his work, Logan went to his room and quickly got ready for bed. When his head hit his pillow, he found the fatigue he'd been feeling a few minutes earlier disappear.

He stared at his ceiling, unable to find sleep. About an hour ago he'd left his home office and approached her door, ready to knock and apologize for this morning. And say goodnight. But the lights were off. And he didn't want to wake her.

So he'd gone back to work and hadn't been able to get his mind off of her since. Logan turned on his side and prepared himself for a restless night.

But his mind wouldn't shut off.

She was finally _here_. He'd been yearning for her for months like a sap. She was finally back in his life. And only a hallway away. What the hell was he doing apart from her?

Logan got to his feet and padded as quietly as he could toward the guest room. He got half way through the hall before he stopped in his tracks. He couldn't do this.

He couldn't take advantage of her. Not when she'd been so great to him. Busting her door open and rushing into her bed was not okay. He went back to his own room, ready to surrender himself to sleep.

* * *

She'd heard him approach her door hours ago. And she'd waited breathlessly for the sound of the doorknob turning, or a knock, or the sound of his voice. But then he had retreated, gone back to his office. She'd felt her heart fall.

She'd been unable to sleep. And she still couldn't quite find slumber. Not with knowledge that he was so close. She missed feeling his body against hers, she missed waking up to him, she missed the warmth his body provided.

Rory quietly got to her feet and made her way to Logan's door. She opened it without sound and slipped in, noting that he was sleeping soundly. Rory stood at the foot of his bed, looking down at him.

This was so wrong. It was totally weird—she felt creepy. But she would stomach feeling like a crazy person if she could just lay in his arms for a while.

Rory slid in under the covers and joined him in bed, her heart racing. She was afraid to touch him lest he wake and…well, freak out.

After a few minutes of gently poking him and saying his name, Rory was assured that he would wake up. She positioned her body along his and buried her face in the crook of his neck, taking his natural scent in.

God, she loved this man.

Rory felt more content than she had in months. Years. Perhaps her whole life.

She closed her eyes and reveled in what would surely be a short-lived bliss.

Rory didn't notice that her eyes were getting heavier, her breathing slower, and that she was falling asleep in Logan's bed.

* * *

**AN: Short, I know. But what can one do when there's a time crunch?**


	16. Morning

**AN: I ended up cutting this chapter in half so I could get something posted—I don't like to keep you guys waiting! So this chapter will end a little abruptly, but the story line pick right up in the next one.**

He registered that sunlight was hitting his eyelids, and he scrunched them tighter together, trying to ward off having to wake up. That light meant that he'd forgotten to set his alarm clock. Again. Logan pulled Rory, who had already been in his arms as they slept, closer to him. He'd probably already missed his first class. If he didn't get her up soon she'd be late for her Civ class and then he'd have hell to pay. For some reason she always got pissed when she didn't get to be there for her whole class. That's where he and his girlfriend differed greatly.

Logan stretched languidly, already deciding to blow off his whole course load for the day and call the boys up for a quick trip to New York or a sky diving session—something of that nature. Maybe, with every inch of persuasiveness in him, he could convince the woman in his arms to join him wherever he ended up. When she was finished with class of course. Wait. Was it Friday? She could have dinner with the Gilmores tonight. He honestly couldn't remember what day it was. He couldn't think this early in the morning.

Rory stirred slightly next to him. He buried his nose in her hair, his eyes still closed. Regardless of his plans, he needed to get her up—or face her wrath. And to do that, he'd have to be fully conscious and not tangled up in her tresses, right?

With some effort, he hoisted himself up a little and cracked his eyes open. Logan squinted, confused. This wasn't his apartment.

Had he passed out in someone else's bed? With Rory conveniently doing the same?

The room's fixtures didn't seem totally foreign—no, they were definitely familiar to him. His muddled morning brain couldn't understand where he was or what was going on. He sat up to get a better look at the place, trying not to disturb the sleeping woman at his side.

His entire body jolted as reality struck him. He was no college kid blowing off class. Not anymore. He slowly looked down at Rory, his eyes wide.

What the fuck had he done? The last thing he remembered was getting halfway to her room before using better judgment and retreating to his own bed. Where he'd gone straight to sleep. Right? He hadn't blacked out had he? He definitely did not remember Rory getting into his bed. Had he taken advantage of her? Had they had sex? If so, he'd never forgive himself. Especially since he didn't remember anything about it. The two of them reuniting in the bedroom was definitely something he wanted to be privy to!

God, they weren't ready for this yet. Sure, he loved her, and yes, he wanted her. But they were still on shaky ground. He wanted to be sure they were stable before jumping back into things—he'd discovered that after their almost-sexual encounter the previous morning. He wanted to have everything worked about between them emotionally before letting their hormones take over and ravaging each other.

_Desiring a stable relationship_, _not wanting to_ _jump back into things_, _working it all out_…God, he sounded like a pansy even to himself.

Logan lifted the covers a little bit and peered under. Both of them were clothed—he in a t-shirt and boxers, she in the white tank top and purple polka-dot pajama pants they'd bought a couple of night ago. He let out the breath he'd been holding. That was a good sign. Very indicative of a platonic, just-holding-each-other night of wholesome sleep.

So how had Rory ended up spending the night in his bed? And why?

Logan stopped himself. He could lament about this until she woke up and he could awkwardly ask her outright. Or he could revel in what might be a short-lived opportunity to hold in her in his arms.

He chose to revel.

Logan slowly slid back down to a prone position, afraid he would wake her up and ruin this surreal situation, which seemed like some sort of hanging moment in time—a pause in his new stress filled life. Which would be waiting for him the second he got out of this bed. The second he let go of Rory Gilmore.

She was now sleeping on her side, her back to him. He turned on his side and spooned her, letting his arm rest lightly around her waist. She settled into him, and he took a risk by pulling her firmly into his chest. He let the tension flow from his body and evened his breathing.

Serenity. Complete and absolute.

This was so familiar yet so foreign. It had been ages since he'd held her in such a simple and intimate way. He'd ached to hold her this way, had imagined he was doing so many a night with some random woman—or even Grace. This was so domestic, so something a regular couple in love would spend their morning doing. It was perfect. Rory's occasional incomprehensible murmurings brought a smile to his face—he had missed even these.

The peace his body was finally feeling coupled with his immensely comfortable position in his new bed cuddled up to a beautiful woman made Logan's eyelids feel heavy. He fought sleep, not wanting to miss a thing.

And now Aerosmith would be stuck in his head for a century. But 'I Don't Want to Miss A Thing' was embarrassingly relevant right now. He didn't want to close his eyes, for even a second, or he'd miss a fleeting instance of this true, deep connection he was experiencing with Rory.

He couldn't fathom how he could feel so linked to her while she sleeping, but that was how it always was with this woman. He didn't understand how she'd made her way into his heart—unchartered territory to the rest of the world. He didn't understand how he could care about someone so absolutely, so unconditionally. He didn't understand the feelings surging in his chest at the feel of their bodies touching, for it was not just lust but…well, a harmony of every positive emotion he'd ever known plus a hell of a lot more.

He really was supposed to be at work. Especially after skipping out yesterday morning. But if the world thought he was going to willingly pry himself off of her…it was dead wrong.

There had never been a moment just like this and there never would be again. Logan was fully aware of this, and he took pains to memorize every detail—from the location of his arms around her petite body, to her disorderly hair splayed onto his own pillow, to the amount of sunlight streaming into the room, to the way her partially parted lips slowly let air in and out.

"Maid service," the intercom box on the far side of the bed—Rory's side—chirped just before the maids at his front door gave a cursory doorbell ring and used their key to enter his apartment.

Fuck. They had to choose today to show up while he was supposed to be at work rather than just returning.

He felt Rory stirring under his grip and lift her head up. Logan made the split second decision to feign sleep—he didn't want to embarrass her. He would wait to see what she would do…he hoped she would wake him.

He could tell the second she realized where she was. Rory's body tensed and she gasped.

"Oh my—" Rory realized the volume of her voice and lowered it to a whisper. "God!"

She was sleeping in Logan's bed! Her face immediately went beet red. Oh God, if he woke up before she got out of there this would be _the_ most mortifying thing to ever happen to her—screw her first kiss with Dean, her blow up in front of the entire class after getting hit by the deer, her C-SPAN speech with a temporarily-insane Paris, and being dumped at the dance contest under the gaze of most of Stars Hollow. That was all chump change if he woke up to find her _lying in his bed with him _like some nutso psychopath.

She carefully lifted his arm from her side, forcing herself to do so and trying not to dwell on the fact that he'd embraced her in sleep…as though she belonged there. When she was clear of him, she rose from the bed, her face blushing a deeper shade of red when she heard the maids cleaning in the front room.

What if they saw her leaving his room? Worse, what if the noise they were making woke him up? She needed to scram. Now.

She limped to his bedroom door (aware now that her crutches were still in her room), but turned on her heel to face him. She surveyed his body, still slumbering peacefully. He was absolutely gorgeous. And she'd had no chance to enjoy sharing his bed. She heard the vacuum start up and panic filled her chest again.

"I'm sorry I'm insane!" she whispered frantically to him, feeling like she needed to apologize for her behavior somehow. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

Rory opened the door and hopped as quickly as possible from the room, trying to make it to her own room without being spotted.

Logan sat up and looked at the empty door frame, the vacuum roaring loudly down the hall. He'd had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at her rushed apology to his supposedly sleeping form. That was so Rory.

**

* * *

**

After spastically dashing back to her room (and catching the maids' attention rather than avoiding it) Rory collapsed on her bed, out of breath.

She couldn't believe what had happened overnight. She had slept alongside Logan, spent the night with the man she loved. Rory marveled at how unbelievably lucky she was that he didn't wake to find her there. That would have been awkward and humiliating and…plenty of other terrible things. It was such a risk to all the progress they'd made. She was an idiot. The biggest idiot in Idiotsville.

Or maybe…she was a genius. Maybe she could find out a way to do that every night. Sneak into his bed at night and sneak out before he woke up. That wasn't demented was it? Unhealthy maybe, but…okay now she was scaring herself.

But how could she be blamed for wanting to experience waking up to Logan again? It was like an alcoholic abstaining for years finally getting a taste of fine liquor. She knew it was wrong but there was no way she was giving it up again. Rory closed her eyes, remembering the warmth emanated from his body, the body surrounding her in a secure cocoon. She wished she could have relished it a little more. Nevertheless, last night she'd had the best night's sleep she'd had in weeks. Months. Eight months.

Rory spent a few more minutes basking in her post-Logan-encounter giddiness (added to the added bonus of her adrenaline-filled escape).But then her stomach started grumbling and she realized it was almost 10:00. Hunger would definitely drive her out of her room—maids or no maids.

She got up from the bed and started digging through her shopping bags—she still hadn't unpacked them.

Rory changed into jeans and a sleek gray turtle neck. She pulled her hair back into a simple pony tail, her bangs hanging across her forehead.

Rory opened her door and peeked out, noting that Logan's door—which she had left open—was now closed. And the sound of the vacuum was gone. In fact, she didn't hear anything of the maids anymore.

Rory crept (as best she could do on crutches) down the hall and was surprised to see Logan perusing a newspaper—she noted it wasn't one of HPG's—on the couch. He must have sent the maids home.

When she entered the room, he put the paper down and looked up at her, his eyes smiling. "Morning."

"Yes. It is morning."

"Sleep well?"

"Very. You?"

"I'm definitely feeling revitalized. You're up late. A little sleeping in?"

"Oh, no. I've been up for a few hours. In my room. Watching the television. Partaking in television watching. Speaking like someone who has lost the ability to put a coherent sentence together." Great cover-up work there, gumshoe.

He smirked as she self-consciously straightened the hem of her turtleneck.

"How'd you like to go out for break—brunch and then swing by the office with me, Ace?" For some reason he really wanted her to see where he worked. He wanted her to see how…how he made himself into someone worthy of her.

"You mean I get to go to a fancy shmancy brunch _and_ see you in action at work?"

"If you'd like."

"I'd love to."

"You ready now?"

"As long as this is proper brunch/office attire," she said, gesturing to her outfit.

Damn he was glad she'd picked that out. The clingy fabric of the turtleneck hugged her curves and the jeans were pleasantly tight. Her hair pulled back like that with her bangs hanging down flattered her face. She honestly looked like a model.

"I think it'll do."

**

* * *

**

"Wow, Huntzberger. You know how to show a lady a good time. You've got that upper class San Francisco high life down pat."

"I try," he said through a mouthful of his Egg McMuffin.

She smiled at him as she dipped one of her hash browns in ketchup, sticking her elbows up on the plastic table. She'd been pleasantly surprised when he'd led her into the McDonalds near office. Logan had gotten an Egg McMuffin, a hash brown, and orange juice. She'd out-ordered him (of course) with a McGriddle, hotcakes with sausage, and three hash browns. With chocolate milk. And coffee. Oh, how she'd missed coffee.

"You get to go to McDonalds much on the road?" Logan asked between bites.

"Not as much as you'd think. It's not so much fast food on the bus as it is eating at dinky motel restaurants at two in the morning."

"Ah, so this is a delicacy."

"Exactly. I really missed this smell. There really is a distinct McDonalds smell that you can't find anywhere else."

"I concur wholeheartedly."

She ignored his teasing gaze and finished off her hash brown.

They ate in amiable silence. After a few minutes Rory broke that with a simple statement. "Thanks."

"For bringing you here?"

"No. Well, yes. But also for—for everything, especially last night. You were right; I needed to talk to Tristan. And I want you to know that I did. I explained to him that I'm not going back to the tour and that he and I are over. I'm really glad we had the chance to get a little resolution; I didn't realize just how much that whole situation was bothering me. Thanks for encouraging me to call him. I wouldn't have done so if not for you."

"It wasn't easy for me to do that, but I figured it would do everyone involved some good. You're welcome."

They were silent again as Rory continued to make quick progress on her brunch and Logan continued at a slow and steady pace. At this rate she would finish before him.

And she did. Rory crinkled the last paper wrapper into a ball and licked her lips, satisfied. She leaned back in her booth seat, surveying the man across from her as he started in on his hash brown.

"I wish I had a camera right now," she stated.

"Why?"

"To get a picture of us." Rory's tone proved that she thought her words made perfect sense.

"A picture? Of us? Eating at McDonalds?" He looked at her with skeptical eyes.

"Yes."

"And your reasoning is…?"

She smiled at him as he sipped his orange juice. "I'd like to document our _real_ first date. Our _real San Francisco_ first date," she corrected.

"What? No. No, no, no, no. This doesn't count. McDonalds does not count."

"Too late. We're together. We're out. There's food involved. But don't worry—this is perfect."

"Our definitions of perfect—so different."

"Logan," she leaned forward, her voice serious, "really. I'm lovin' it."

He groaned and threw a salt packet across the table at her. "Tell me you didn't just say that."

"I've been waiting to get that in for thirty minutes now." Rory grinned maliciously at him. "This is so great. A McDonalds date. A 'McDate,' if you will."

"I won't, thanks."

"Oh, come on. Say it. You know you want to. McDate. A McDate with McMe?"

Logan sighed and pulled his new iPhone out of his pocket.

"Take your picture," he said handing it over.

"You had a camera all this time and you only just got it out?" She asked, feigning shock—she'd known he just didn't want a picture to commemorate this event that wasn't really an event to him.

"Anything to make you stop McTalking."

"I knew you'd see it my way. And wasn't that fun?"

Logan refused to respond.

She leaned over the table and gestured for him to do the same. Rory held the camera out at arm's length and snapped a not-so-candid photo in which her outstretched arm took up a good portion of the picture.

Logan inspected the image after she passed the phone back to him. His eyes were half-closed and her smile was crooked. "This is a terrible picture."

"It fits the occasion."

"What are you implying?"

"I'm referring to the overall mood of this date—the cute corniness that makes it so special."

He smirked at her, happy she was in a playful mood.

"That iPhone worked pretty well. You should be in its commercials—the ones that are oh so spontaneous and happen right on the street—and tell how it handy it was at this unexpected time."

"Any camera phone would have served the same purpose. Honestly, I think this thing's pretty hokey, especially considering that a new and improved model will surely be out in six months or so."

"Okay, give it to me then."

"Oh, sorry. Your earlier comment, I believe it was 'I'm lovin' it' has disqualified you from any gift from me ever again."

Rory grabbed a handful of ketchup packets and hurled them at him.

"Hey, way to over-retaliate."

"You were asking for it."

"Sure I was."

Her retort was cut off by the ring of his phone.

Rory scrunched up her nose. "What a boring ring tone."

Logan chuckled and answered. Rory could tell it was work. The way his posture straightened and his voice took on a more authoritative quality couldn't be missed.

She had kept to herself too much of the morning (and all night, technically). Huntzberger Publishing needed its Huntzberger back. Rory got to her feet, gathered her crutches, and began the trek to the door. Logan rose and followed, still talking to the editor on the phone.

When they'd both exited the restaurant, Logan stopped short. "Just a second, Dale."

He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and turned to Rory, who regarded him curiously. Without warning he pressed her against McDonalds's glass door for an agonizingly thorough kiss. She let her crutches fall to the sidewalk as she brought her arms up to encircle his neck. When they parted his breath was coming faster. Her eyes remained closed and she really felt as if she were going to swoon or something of an equally feminine nature.

"I figured our first _real San Francisco_ date should end with a _real_ kiss," he whispered into her ear.

Rory's lashes fluttered open, revealing lust filled eyes. She bit her lip and gave a small smile. He had to restrain himself from bringing his lips to hers again upon sight of it. They'd be there all day.

Logan reluctantly brought his phone back to his ear. "Dale? Yes. Yes. Uh-huh." His eyes still held hers. "Sure. Okay. I'll be right up."

He hung up and held his hand out to hers. Logan frowned when she shook her head.

"It'll be a little hard to walk on crutches without the use of my left hand."

He nodded knowingly and stooped to retrieve her fallen staffs. "How much longer are you going to be on those again, Crutchy?"

Rory rolled her eyes at the name she hoped he'd forgotten about. "Dr. Peters said four days minimum, and it's been almost two. I think I'll be able to manage by tomorrow, though."

Logan gave her a stern look. "I don't thin—"

"Isn't Dale waiting for you?" she interrupted with a sugary sweet smile.

He narrowed his eyes. "Yes," he said begrudgingly. "Let's go."

**

* * *

**

**AN: Sorry for the wait, but like I said, I was on a cruise for a week and a half and then there was lots of catching up to do, and, well honestly, this story veered way off course last chapter (not that that's a bad thing), and I no longer have a clear idea of where I'm going with this—yep, I'm winging it. No pre-written notes to follow like my other chapters, so I'm a little apprehensive…and time will become more of a problem starting from scratch each time. Okay, enough of my writing turmoil. Did you like it? Huh? I'm dying to know... **


	17. Bones

Rory plodded along behind Logan as he greeted Jenny at the front desk. She smiled to herself as the other woman's eyes went wide at the sight of her. Take _that_, threateningly-beautiful-condescending-secretary-lady. She made a note to herself to work on those derogatory nicknames.

They passed the desk, and Rory almost took Logan out, ramming into his shoulder, as he turned left instead of right.

"Isn't your office the other way?"

He looked back at her, rubbing his shoulder. "I moved into Dad's."

"I thought you loved your old office."

"I did. But if I didn't move, the new VP would have a much bigger office and a much better view than me, and that just wouldn't be acceptable—according to Mitchum."

"According to Mitchum?"

"He left a veritable _book_ of instructions for me."

"No." She couldn't believe it. Wait, this was _Mitchum_. Of course she could believe it.

"Yep. It's all in there. From proper attire—because he thinks I'm a complete idiot and need help picking out tie colors—to which employees need which kind of coaxing to _be all they can be._ Though I guess that could come in handy down the road."

He stopped at the end of the hall and held the door open for her—she noted that the _Mitchum_ of _Mitchum Huntzberger, President _had been removed, most likely to be replaced by _Logan_ within the week.

She entered the room, and, not surprisingly, she was faced with a desk and a receptionist—but it wasn't the elderly woman she'd encountered on her last visit. This was a thin redhead with large blue eyes and a wide, ditzy smile already on her face.

"Hi Logan—er—Mr. Huntzberger! Good morning!" She looked at Rory. "Hi! I'm Lisa! It's great to meet you!"

Rory cringed at her high-pitched voice and over-eager demeanor.

"Lisa, this is Rory Gilmore," Logan said, smiling bemusedly at the look on Rory's face.

"Nice to meet you, too," she murmured.

"Any messages?" Logan asked as he walked back toward his inner office.

"Oh! Yeah! Right here!"

She handed Logan a steno pad filled with messages and quickly turned to pick up a ringing phone.

Rory and Logan escaped into his 'real' office, and Rory bit back a laugh as she heard the receptionist answer the phone.

"Hi! This is Lisa! Oh…I mean…Logan Huntzberger's office! Mom? Hi!"

Logan closed the door with a snort and pulled one of the two seats facing his large desk around to his side. Rory gratefully took it, and he sat in his own chair, swiveling to face her.

"Does Finn know about her?" she asked, nodding her head toward the door, where a high-pitched, indistinguishable, personal phone call was being performed.

"No, and he never will. I don't need him hanging around this building when he should be…well, he _should_ be back in Australia managing that personal financing company he started up three summers ago—when he had that productive phase of his. He hasn't been back since that summer, but the business has taken off and he's making…let's just say it's more than the average four or five households combined. But he uses that capital to travel anywhere and everywhere. I'd like to keep it that way—otherwise I think I'd be getting a permanent roommate."

Rory smiled. "I miss Finn."

Logan sighed. "I do, too. But not enough to want him sharing my toothbrush."

"Understandable."

"Hey, I need to return a few of these calls," he told her, looking over the steno pad of messages. "Feel free to look around the room."

"So you're going to let me snoop without having you looking over my shoulder _and_ I get to listen in on your phone conversations?"

He spread his arms wide. "I've got nothing to hide. Mitchum, on the other hand…"

The grinned at each other.

Rory stood, leaving her crutches behind in deference of hopping on one foot and flailing her arms about for support from whatever was in reach. At least she wasn't relying on those blasted metal armpit-murderers.

She first approached the window, wanting to see the view Logan had referenced. Mitchum was right. This had to be the best possible sight of the whole floor—even superior to the one the giant glass wall provided out in the pit. Not only could she see the beautiful architecture of San Francisco, she was privy to an expanse of beautiful blue sky that made her feel as if she had all the space in the world. This view made the office seem bigger—though it was definitely big to begin with.

She turned to look at Logan, already having an animated conversation about…stock options? At least she thought so. Unfortunately her grandfather's influences had been in vain—she detested the business world, unless she was writing about it, of course. In spite of that, she smiled to herself. Logan looked like he fit. His face was lively and she could tell he both knew what he was talking about and was truly interested in it.

She turned back to see various filing cabinets and a beautiful antique book shelf (ruined by being stocked solely with books about finance and managing those working in finance). In a corner of the office were a mini-fridge and a couch—for those long nights spent burning the midnight oil? She didn't like to think of Logan having to spend the night here. But the idea of Mitchum crammed onto that little two-seat sofa made her chuckle to herself.

There were a few large, beautiful paintings lining one wall—they were abstract—she wouldn't have taken Mitchum for that type. The wall behind the desk held the elder Huntzberger's various diplomas; Logan's framed Yale certificate now joined the cluster.

She smiled to herself—they were both Yale graduates, Yale alumni. She had attained her goal. Now that she had the experience of the Barrack tour, she was fully equipped to go out there and get whatever job she wanted. Out there…funny how her only desire was to stay right where she was.

Satisfied after inspecting the office to heart's content Rory hopped back to her seat and listened to Logan's half of a few more phone calls until he'd returned all of his messages.

Replacing the phone to its cradle, he turned to Rory. It had been hard to rip his eyes from her and focus on his calls; she was so gorgeous. And every once in awhile she would hop from place to place, and that was even more distracting; he had to use all his control not to laugh into the phone at the Japanese advertising mogul chattering away in his ear.

"Up to snuff?"

"Well, I thought it was until I came back around to your desk. You have all these little picture frames and no pictures. That's just depressing."

"Yeah, Mom came in before she went back to Hartford and took the pictures. She'd had his personal assistant put family pictures in here about ten years back—more to remind the assistant that Mitchum was a married man than anything else. Not that it worked."

"He boffed her?"

"My dad was always known to _boff_ anything within reach." Logan clenched his fist, remembering how he had once had a similar reputation. Thank God his Ace had come along.

Rory covered his fist with her hand, and they were both silent for a few seconds.

"Well, you need some pictures in here ASAP to brighten up the place. Not that it needs too much brightening with that massive window over there."

Logan sighed exaggeratedly. "You're not going to let that go?"

"Why would I?"

He removed his cell phone from his pocket and hooked it up to the printer, quickly printing off the picture she'd taken back at McDonalds. Logan ripped the white edges of the paper off of the image and slid it into one of the empty frames. His eyes met hers quizzically.

"Happy?"

He noted that his heart began to beat faster as her eyes crinkled in delight.

"Yes. Thank you!" She leaned down and kissed his temple.

His arms, on their own prerogative, found their way around her waist and pulled her gently down to his lap. He heard her breath hitch.

Logan brought his lips to hers and closed his eyes, feeling his body buzz as she responded to his kiss.

"Oooohhh, making out in your father's office. Naughty," she whispered huskily between their deep kisses.

"This is _my_ office, Ace." He bit her lip gently and she hummed into his mouth.

His nose grazed hers as he applied more pressure to her lips, letting their connection grow in intensity. He was growing steadily warmer as her hands moved across his chest and she shifted restlessly on his lap.

After letting it go on for a few more minutes, Logan forced himself to pull away. He didn't want what happened at his apartment the other day to happen here in this semi-public place. Lisa was right outside the door.

Rory, still panting, rested her head on his shoulder. He took a second to catch his own breath and collect his thoughts, which were mainly that he wanted this woman more than anyone he'd ever _ever_ been with.

Logan swiveled the chair slowly back and forth and she snuggled more firmly into his body. Rory's eyes scanned the office again.

"It really is beautiful, Logan. And this wasn't even Mitchum's main office, right?"

"Nope. HQ's in New York. _That_ office has its own bar."

She chuckled and he felt her body's movement resonate in his own chest. Logan rested his chin the top of her head.

"I'm serious."

"I believe you."

Rory lifted her head up, remembering her initial surprise at seeing Lisa instead of Logan's old receptionist.

"Did Mitchum make you get rid of Molly and take Lisa instead?"

"If that had been the case, I'd have thrown _all_ of his directions out the window. No, I gave Molly the week off to enjoy the birth of her grandson, Joey. I'm borrowing Lisa over there from Hank—our head of payroll. He's on leave for a bad back…or something like that. I don't know if I believe him, but I'm not going to make him show up and order him to do some heavy lifting to see if he's bluffing—like my father would have done. I'm trying to make this environment a little more laid back than it was in the past. How he ever put up with Lisa, I'll never know. Thank God she only started with me today and not earlier this week."

"Right. You only have to deal with her tomorrow, and then it'll be the weekend so you won't have to see her at all for two days, and then Molly will be back. Won't she?"

Logan winced. Of course Rory didn't know that he'd worked almost seven days a week even before he'd become president. He barely knew what a weekend was anymore.

"Yeah, she'll be back Monday," he said quietly, not wanting to tell her about his hectic work schedule.

"Good. I liked her."

"Good."

They sat there in his chair for a few more minutes, silently enjoying the intimate contact. When Logan noticed Rory's eyes begin to droop, he cleared his throat, and reluctantly suggested that they get up so she could see the rest of the floor. She didn't mention that she had already seen the place; it would be more interesting to get Logan's perspective as they went anyway.

As they left his office and were preparing to enter the hallway, a shrill exclamation came from behind.

"That's it! Angel!"

The couple turned to face Lisa, who looked very pleased with herself.

"Excuse me?" Rory asked.

"Ever since the first day I met Logan when he came to tell Hank about that mistake in all the freelance writers' checks, I knew he looked like someone—but I couldn't figure out who. And now I know! Angel—er David Boreanaz. With blond hair."

Logan looked at Rory with a puzzled look and was surprised to find that she was appraising his face. After a few seconds, she broke into laughter.

"You're right! He _does_ look like David Boreanaz."

"Not you, too."

"Hey, the lady has a point. You're an Angel impersonator in the making."

"Well at least I'll always have job security," he mumbled, tired of having these women compare him to someone he'd never heard of.

"And you're the spitting image of Emily Deschanel! It's Brennan and Booth—with blond hair. Like, exactly. You're all smart and he's all 'I do what I like,'—as evidenced by his leaving work early all those times this week—I'll tell you, Hank was not happy about that Logan. Seriously, I've got the cast of _Bones_ right here in front of me!"

"Oh, well I'm not so sure about that one," Rory said, not wanting to be found similar to the no-nonsense character. She enjoyed nonsense.

Logan smirked at her; glad she was getting a taste of her own medicine.

"Hold my calls, please, Lisa. I'll be back in about ten minutes."

"Alright, David. See you later, Emily!"

Logan groaned as he shut the door. "Now I'll be 'David' or 'Angel' or uhh…"

"Booth."

"Right…whenever she's around. Why'd you have to encourage her?"

"Because you do sort of look like him."

"Okay, well you look just like that Emily girl."

Rory smiled. "You have no idea what she looks like."

"But I have a lot of faith in Lisa."

Rory didn't respond with the snort he was expecting—she was too distracted by the sour looks she'd gotten from a few young female reporters who had passed them. Was it her outfit? Maybe they didn't like how much room she was taking up with the crutches and all…

But these looks really held malice. Oh. Of course. She'd gotten those sneers around campus back at Yale when she'd 'cut in line' and just begun to date Logan. They'd tripled in number when the pair had started to date exclusively. And now she was taking the handsome, charming, intelligent, trust fund boy off the market again. At least she hoped she was taking him off the market again. Rory reminded herself to ask Logan just what set-up they had. Extra-friendly acquaintances? Boyfriend and girlfriend? Something more? She really wasn't sure.

Logan led her around the place, giving her details and anecdotes that never failed to make her laugh.

He really had been here for eight months, and that had given him plenty of time to have stories about computer malfunctions and peculiar employees. To think that she could have been hearing these stories right as they'd happened, hearing them as his wife…it tightened her chest.

Toward the end of their tour, Dale rounded a corner and appeared out of nowhere.

Rory gasped at the sight of him. She'd forgotten that she'd told the editor her name was Tookie Clothespin. Maybe he wouldn't notice her with her hair in a ponytail…

"Well, if it isn't Tookie Clothespin."

No such luck. Rory blushed as Logan gave her a wry grin.

"Other aliases include Sydney Bristow, La Femme Nikita, and Agent 99. But you can refer to her as Rory Gilmore."

Rory bit her lip, a guilty look on her face.

"Hi, Dale. I'm sorry. I lied to you about my name."

He gave her a good-natured smile. "Well if it makes you feel any better, I didn't buy it for a second."

**

* * *

**

Rory stared into her coffee, contemplating…everything.

Logan had been fetched away by Lisa because some investor had called and demanded that he speak to Logan immediately. So Dale had led her to the break room and she'd sat alone with a few cups of coffee for the past forty-five minutes.

And now she was simply thinking. Making mental pro/con lists for every major circumstance of her life—relationship, career, living situation…the list went on.

She was deep in the throes of East Coast vs. West Coast when two female reporters entered the break room. They poured themselves cups of coffee and sat at the table next to Rory's.

"Have you seen her?" the blonde one asked the blonder one.

"Not yet. You?" Blonder replied.

"Nope."

"God, I can't believe this. First my yoga class gets canceled, then some asshole on the street steps on my new boots and ruins them, and now this."

"Tell me about it. He finally broke up with _Grace_," Blonde said her name with great disdain, "and he's already bringing some other girl into the office."

"I knew I should have gone to the funeral. That's when guys like that are most vulnerable; they just don't realize it."

"If he goes from woman to woman this quickly, I'm going to be ready next time. The second he drops this one, I'll be at his side."

Blonder smiled at her friend. "Not if I get there first."

"Tell you what; I'll share him with you."

"Aw, _thanks_."

Rory took another sip of her coffee, ordering herself not to turn around and tell these ladies off. It would be much more interesting to hear what else they had to say…

**

* * *

**

In his office, Logan signed the last page of the contract mailed in today. He set them in the 'Outgoing' tray and checked the clock on his desk.

He'd left Rory an hour ago. He'd really thought it would only take him a few minutes to deal with Granger, but then he'd been struck by the flood of work he'd neglected over the last few days. And he still had a hell of a lot to do. Some of this work would be finished much easier if he was in New York.

Logan looked around his office, fighting the desire to get up and leave with Rory. He was needed here. He had to finish this.

But it would always be here tomorrow. And soon he'd probably be so overwhelmed that he wouldn't have the chance to put things off ever again.

He mentally patted himself on the back for making that reasoning seem so rational in his head.

But he really did deserve to enjoy his time with Rory. Thinking of her, sitting alone and bored somewhere was all he needed to get him out of his seat, turn his lights off, and tell Lisa he would be out for the rest of the day.

**

* * *

**

"Tiffany said she was pretty. Really pretty," Blonde said, a worried look on her face.

"Pretty is as pretty does. Or something. Besides, pretty isn't going to hold his attention for long. He'll get bored in a couple of weeks and move on," Blonder said, her voice low.

"That's what you said about Grace."

"I think that was all about appearances. And now that his father is dead, Logan can do whatever—whoever—he wants. And hopefully that whoever will be me."

Blonde laughed. "All I know is that if I see this other girl he brought in, I'm going to give her a piece of my mind, and—"

"Hey, Rory. I'm cutting out early. You ready to go?"

"No, why don't you grab some coffee and sit here with me awhile?"

Rory heard the other girls gasp at their exchange and smiled amusedly.

After pouring himself a cup and getting a new one for Rory, Logan turned from the coffee machine and joined Rory at the table.

"Morning ladies," he called over to a couple of reporters at the next table.

They murmured something in reply and quickly got to their feet to leave. Funny, those two usually fawned all over him when he as much as looked their way. Logan shrugged it off. He'd never understand women.

"Very impressive."

"What? My ability to clear a room?" he asked.

"I mean your job, Logan. How you do your job. I really love how you work. You have control, but you don't abuse it. You treat your employees with fairness and without prejudice. You make them respect you _and_ like you. That's something our father could never do."

"Well, there's still a little residue of Mitchum around here that's keeping them in line. Once the shock of his death wears off, they'll all be clawing at me."

"You'll handle it."

"Think so?"

She regarded him with those frank blue eyes. "Yes."

He smiled, somewhat bitterly, and turned away. "Maybe."

"Was a character on _Arrested Development_." She leaned across the table and took his hand in hers. "You will definitely, 100 percent, without a doubt blow them out of the water."

"I don't like to be patronized" he joked, sliding his hand out of hers. For some reason he was not comfortable taking her compliments. He wasn't used to praise for a job well done. Logan was conditioned to expect only harsh criticisms for what he had failed to do. He knew how to react to Mitchum's attacks—put on a blank face and work a few biting remarks of his own in on the conversation, then leave sullen and dissatisfied with everything and everyone.

"I'm not patronizing you. Trust me; your ego doesn't need any stroking."

Ego. He barely had one any more. She'd turned him into an insecure, sniveling child when she'd…

Fuck, he needed to stop doing that to himself. He needed to forgive her. She had never intended to hurt him, and he _knew _that. The fallout of her words had affected him more than even he could have foreseen, and he didn't like the idea of being so susceptible to someone else. So over the past months, he'd degraded himself and blamed her for it. Which just didn't make sense. He needed to be an adult, accept his own responsibility, and forgive her for what she had unintentionally done to him.

Logan thought it over. He did. Forgive her.

He understood why she had said no. She wasn't ready. He understood why he was wrong. He had forced marriage on her—with the condition that she move across the country with him, away from everyone and everything she'd ever known. Rory was not the leap of faith type of person. She just wasn't. And he accepted that. He just wished he'd truly realized that eight months ago. Because he really should have known. He'd seen the pain in her eyes as she'd told him she couldn't marry him. He'd seen that pain triple as he'd rejected her suggestion of another go at a long distance relationship. Even now, he saw that same pain flash into her eyes every so often. She was undoubtedly torturing herself for refusing marriage—or at least for being the one the breakup would be blamed on.

He forgave her. And she needed to hear that. She also needed to hear him apologize. For he was truly sorry.

Rory had grown silent at his troubled look after her attempt at a light joke about his ego. She figured he was probably thinking about Mitchum and his ego. Logan could never be Mitchum. They were cut from different cloths. She knew that from the gentleness in him. Logan genuinely cared about people, and his father had never cared for anyone but himself.

"Rory." He interrupted her thoughts.

"Hmm?"

He wasn't looking straight at her. He couldn't. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for fucking everything up. I'm sorry for trying to force you into something you weren't ready for. I'm sorry for keeping us apart for eight months, even when you reached out to me with the call and the Guy Fawkes Day gift. And—" he cleared his throat, "—and I forgive you. For not saying yes."

After a few seconds, he hazarded a peek at her face, hoping she hadn't taken offense. He was forgiving her because he felt that he needed to formally do so in order to clear his own heavy heart. She hadn't actually said anything that would warrant his forgiveness.

She looked pensive—which could be good or bad.

"Logan." She stopped, unable to articulate what she wanted to say—which didn't happen very often.

The worried look on his face filled her heart; he really was concerned that she would take the perfect things he'd just said the wrong way.

Rory scooted her chair closer too his and threw her arms around him, pressing the side of her face to his.

"Ditto," she whispered.

**

* * *

**

Rory reminded herself that she loved this movie and that peeking over at Logan every ten seconds was probably annoying him. Or creeping him out. But she couldn't help herself. She loved how he looked as he watched movies—totally engrossed. He knew how to forget everything else and lose himself in a good film, as was proper when watching a movie with a Gilmore. Rory sighed in contentment.

They'd had a great day. Logan had shown her his favorite places in San Francisco—of course, he had made her get into a wheelchair so they could move a little faster. Which she resented. She thought she'd been doing reasonably well for never having to use crutches before. But it was nice to give her armpits a rest. And Logan was definitely an exciting wheelchair pilot. The two of them barreling down the crowded sidewalks at breakneck speed certainly caught a few eyes—and her (half-hearted) protests could probably be heard a few blocks in every direction.

They'd had a late lunch at Gordon Biersch which had some of the best beer in the city. The atmosphere was fun, and she'd loved her meal. After eating, he'd taken her to a few of the eclectic little shops and old-fashioned book stores that had always reminded him of her. He'd let them stay at some of these places for more than hour as she browsed to her heart's content. Logan had even insisted on buying a few of the books she'd tried to start reading in the stores.

For dinner, he'd taken her to Kan Zaman, a trippy little Middle Eastern restaurant where they'd sat on pillows and watched as belly dancers worked their way from table to table during the meal. The place had ambiance (there was even a hookah bar in the corner) and great foreign food. Rory was surprised at how well Logan knew her tastes.

Really, all the things they'd done hadn't been too fancy or over the top. It was just a casual day of enjoying each other's company.

Now they were watching _Strange Brew,_ which she was sure they'd watched together on at least two other occasions. But she just couldn't pay attention. She was too aware of his presence.

They were sitting next to each other—close, but no quite touching.

Funny how exciting it was just to be near him. She felt like she was thirteen. Would he put his arm around her? Would he move in for a kiss?

The air between them was charged, and though Logan was clearly watching the movie, she could tell he felt the energy coming off of both of their bodies.

About thirty minutes into the movie, he caught her watching him.

"Tsk tsk tsk. Someone's not paying attention to the movie."

He put his arm around her, and she grinned at him.

"Shh. I'm trying to watch," she whispered.

Rory settled into him and they both turned their attention back to the screen. She sighed happily.

Gotta love _Strange Brew_.

**

* * *

**

She woke up and immediately noticed the bright sunshine streaming through the window and stinging her eyes. The next thing that came to her attention was the knot in her neck from sleeping at an angle she wasn't used to. And then, finally, she realized where she was—the couch in the main room—and who she was laying on top of—Logan. They were both fully clothed. This was one of those completely innocent accidents of falling asleep during a movie and moving, during that sleep, to get more comfortable.

Rory, moving slowly up and down with Logan's breathing, looked down at him. Regardless of his work situation in the waking hours, when he was asleep he didn't like he a care in the world. To the best of her ability, she tried to smooth his ruffled hair. She set her nose lightly on his neck, taking in his masculine scent. Rory couldn't help but trail a few light kisses from his neck to his jaw line.

He stirred under her, awakened by her actions. She shifted to face him, and he regarded her with heavy-lidded eyes. Rory couldn't help but wonder at how cute and childlike his tired face looked.

He smiled sleepily at her, and she caught her breath at how attractive the simple gesture was.

"We fall asleep?" he croaked. She loved his morning voice.

"Yep."

He yawned. "How'd it end?"

"Same as always." She knew without asking that he was referring to the movie.

"Good to know some things never change."

"Yeah."

Holding eye contact, Rory took a deep breath and brought her face close to his, their lips almost touching.

"Good morning," she whispered.

He raised his head and pressed his lips to hers. Rory kissed him back and giggled into his lips when she heard him moan.

His arms encircled her waist, pulling her body down flat against his. Her tongue swept into his mouth, and Logan massaged it with his own.

After about five minutes of some very teen-like making out, she pulled back, giving both of them a chance to breathe.

"You know how to wake a man up, Ace."

"My pleasure."

Rory got to her feet, wincing a little when she put pressure on her ankle. She slowly let the ankle take more weight. Looking pleased with herself, she took a few limping steps.

"Rory," Logan warned.

"It's not so bad. A little painful, sure. But hey—no pain, no gain, right?"

Logan pulled himself up from the couch. "If you say so. Hey, do you want some coffee?"

She eyed him suspiciously. "You don't have a coffee maker."

"It's right over there." He pointed the high-tech device sitting on one of the kitchen counters.

She gaped at him. "That has not been there this whole time. I ripped this place apart looking for coffee."

He smirked. "I had it delivered yesterday while we were out."

"I think that's the most amazing thing you've ever done for me." She limped over to him and kissed him sweetly on the lips.

"One cup or two?" he whispered huskily in her ear, getting a laugh out of her.

"Two."

Logan entered the kitchen area to start the coffee, and Rory heard her cell phone ringing from her bedroom. She shuffled as fast as she could down the hall and reached it just in time.

"Hey Mom!"

"Hey kid! Guess what I got this morning?"

"Uhh…let's see…"

"Geez, move it along already," Lorelai cut her off. "I don't have time for your slow guessing. I'll just tell you. A package—sent from Tristan—with all of your clothes and a few other amenities came to the house today."

"My stuff?" Rory asked excitedly. She missed her stuff. It was nice of Tristan to send it all to her mother's rather than throw it in a dumpster somewhere.

"Yes. And Mommy will send it all to you over there in San Francisco if you fill her in on what's going on with this whole Logan thing."

"Logan's back in the picture? Oh, good. That boy was gorgeous," Rory heard a very Babette-like voice say in the background.

"Mom, where are you? The diner?"

"Maybe."

"You aren't supposed to be on the phone at the diner."

"Yes, I know. But I need _something _to make Luke angry. We're fighting."

"We are _not_ fighting," a gruff voice called out.

"And I need something with which to annoy him. What better than a call to my beloved daughter?" she continued.

"Rory, don't listen to your mother. She's a crazy person. We _aren't_ fighting."

"Keep telling yourself that, buster. No one gets away with throwing out my pizza."

"That was _weeks _old."

"Doesn't matter."

"You're fighting about pizza?" Rory interjected, trying to get her mother's attention back to the phone call.

"How interesting that you want the details of my relationship when I haven't heard from _you_ in several days, several important days when, last I heard, you were shacking up with limo boy and contemplating breaking everything off with Bible boy for good. Spill. Now."

**

* * *

**

Logan set Rory's two cups of coffee on the kitchen table and sipped gingerly at his own. After going so long without it, the stuff tasted terrible. It was then that Logan realized just how bright the room was. He checked the clock.

_Damn._ He'd way overslept again. This was going to start being a problem at the office.

After missing so much time this week, he really did have to log a full day. He'd probably be working till late tonight, not to mention tomorrow…

He made his way toward his room to change. As he passed Rory's room, its door open, he couldn't help but hear her hear her words to her mother.

"—going to happen. I just know that I love him. And I'll stay in San Francisco forever if it's where Logan is. I'm ready now, Mom. _I'm ready_."


	18. Like Judi Dench

**AN: The following is from Michael Ausiello's page on the TvGuide website.**

**Q: What is Alexis Bledel up to these days? **

_**Ausiello: **_Beats me, but had _Gilmore Girls_ been back this season, she would've been (wait for it) spending time with ex-leading man Matt Czuchry! No lie. Czuchry recently confirmed to me that despite Rory and Logan's series-ending split, he quietly inked a new deal with the show last spring that — if _Gilmore_ was renewed for an abbreviated, 13-episode eighth season — would've called for Logan to return. "Contractually, there was an agreement that I would come back for a certain amount of episodes," reveals the upcoming _Friday Night Lights_ guest star, who insists TPTB didn't clue him in on _why_ Logan would've returned. "I don't know [what would've happened, because those episodes were never written. There were a lot of hypotheticals about what those 13 episodes would be." At the very least, the return engagement probably would've given Rory-Logan a better send-off than the forced breakup we got. Looking back, even Czuchry concedes the duo's split felt rushed. "I felt like that particular episode, where he asks her to marry him and then they break up and it's done, just felt like too much at once considering that this relationship was something that had evolved over three seasons." That said, he acknowledges that _Gilmore_ producers were in a tough spot creatively because "when they shot the episode, it wasn't known whether it was a season finale or a series finale. I think that if everybody would've known that it was a _series_ finale, things would have gone differently."

**Depressing huh? Made me not want to write for a few weeks, that's for sure. What might have been and all that… Well, really it's my fault that I haven't updated in so long. Life got in the way. Doesn't it always? Oh, Matt Czuchry will be in the 12****th**** episode of FNL, though I don't know when that will be. You should really check out Ausiello's stuff if you want spoilers and updates on actors from many cancelled shows. This guy gets me through **_**Gilmore Girls **_**and **_**Veronica Mars **_**being gone. Okay, time for the update now…**

* * *

Logan's eyes widened at this. It took him a few seconds to even begin to process this information. She was ready? His brain didn't seem to be working at full speed as he scanned his mental dictionary for all possible meanings of the word that didn't equate to her wanting to enter a full-blown committed relationship with him again. He didn't want to fall to the fate of many eavesdroppers and totally misunderstand what she'd said. 

Logan was broken out of his thoughts when Oscar approached him, meowed (loudly), and rubbed against his legs. At the sound, Rory turned, surprised, and looked at him through her open door.

"Oh, uh…sorry."

He stooped to pick up the cat and quickly made his way back to his room, embarrassed for being caught listening in to such a personal conversation—that pertained to him.

Rory watched as he left, her cheeks a little flushed. He'd heard what she'd just said to her mom. And it was really embarrassing. But it would probably save some time. At least he knew. She gave a small sigh and turned her attention back to her mother, who hadn't noticed Rory's temporary absence from the line.

* * *

"Oscar, you, like your counterpart, are going straight behind bars. It's the pound for you, buddy," Logan mumbled to the cat as he set him down on his bed. The large tabby purred and stretched languidly in response. "Fine, I admit that that was an empty threat, but you've got to admit that that was some damn horrible timing back there." 

He realized that he was looking at the cat expectantly, like the feline would concede the point. It was definitely too early in the morning. Or maybe Rory's presence was just rubbing off on him. She had a tendency to put a human into non-human things—as Humberto on his bedside table testified.

Logan changed into his business suit quickly and turned toward his door, not quite feeling up to going out and facing her after the eavesdropping incident. Plus there was the fact that he had to tell her he was ditching her for work. She was going to be bored out of her skull sitting around here all day by herself. He would invite her to his office, but there was no way he would get any work done with the woman of his dreams anywhere in the vicinity.

He gathered up all his resolve and marched toward her room, intending to tell her he had to work but completely expecting those big blue eyes to change his mind in ten seconds flat.

Logan knocked softly on her partially open door and stuck his head in, noting that she was no longer on the phone with her mother. Rory looked up from the shirt she'd been folding and gave him a half-embarrassed smile; he returned it, thinking it best to get the awkwardness of his overhearing her out of the way as soon as possible.

"Rory…listen, I need to go into the office. Dale can't keep handling everything by himself, and I need to show everyone I can handle the job. And I can't just go in for an hour—I need to log a full day. I'd love for you to come with me, but my effectiveness as a boss would be less than subpar with you…distracting me. Not that you're a bad distraction, it's just that I'm the president of Huntzberger Publishing, and I need to act like it. Without a firm hand, everyone at the office will run around like chickens with their heads cut off. They need leadership; they need _me_. I don't want to leave you by yourself, but today I really have to go to work—"

"Of course you do." Rory cut him off before he could ramble any longer. She could tell he really felt terrible about going to work, and that was strange. Of course he had to go to work. If anyone could understand that, she could…well, maybe not now—she _was_ unemployed, wasn'tshe?

Logan looked at her, dumbfounded at her simple response. She grinned at his look. "Well, it's not like I don't want to spend time with you, but I've been keeping you to myself, and you have things to do. I'm sorry I've been hogging all your time; that's not fair to you or the company. You don't have to feel obligated to entertain me—I'm the freeloader here." She saw that he was about to protest and raised her voice a little. "Seriously, Logan, don't worry about me. I'm in San Francisco, for godsakes. Trust me, I'll find something with which to entertain myself. You get to the office and be your work dork self."

He smiled at the memories brought up by that phrase. How many times had he replayed that perfect slot of time with Rory in his head after they'd broken up? If only he'd known that the business deal he'd been working toward so diligently would ruin him financially. If only he'd known that the woman sharing his bed would only be a work dork lover until she graduated and chose her own work dorkiness over her own blond-haired, brown-eyed work dork. His smile had faltered, but it brightened at his next thought. She was once a work dork lover, and she _still was_.

"I'll do my best," he said as he turned to leave.

* * *

Other than the fact that he had missed breakfast in his haste to get out the door before he changed his mind about work, Logan considered the day fairly successful. He felt good about his productivity, and he'd made up for the past week. He finally felt like he was truly the man for the job—if he did say so himself. 

Though it was definitely stressful. Everyone was watching him for the slightest trace of a misstep. But he found that he was used to that—maybe his father's constant scrutiny had had a purpose after all…

He and Rory had just finished dinner—just some macaroni and cheese she'd whipped up. He'd added an apple to his meal, but Rory had opted for a couple of twinkies.

Rory looked across the table at Logan as he polished off his golden delicious. She had asked him how his day had gone, and, sure, he had complained. But it was good-naturedly. And she was sure she'd seen a glint of something or other in his eyes as he'd described a debacle he'd delegated.

Once Logan had aired his obviously joking, exaggerated, faux grievances, she'd responded in a joking matter.

"Come on, at least tomorrow's Saturday. We can spend all day together, and you won't have to think about that awful, evil, terrible stapler or the incompetent mail carrier for even a second."

He'd regarded her, a little guiltily, without saying a word.

"But you can't hang out tomorrow…because you have to work?"

He'd nodded, still trying to gauge her reaction.

"That's fine." She'd tried desperately not to sound disappointed. But she was. She'd missed him that day. Spending the day alone had only shown her just how dependent upon him she'd become.

Lorelai would be rolling over in her grave…if she were in her grave.

But it was the good kind of dependence. The kind that proved to her that she was truly, deeply in love with Logan Huntzberger.

"There are still a few museums I haven't hit. And once I find a good book, I'm dead to the world for hours."

"Good," he'd mumbled.

And that was where their conversation had ended—or stalled, at least. Now she was sitting at the table, watching him break the core of his apple in half—though he seemed to be deep in reflective thought. Rory began to pull a loose thread from the hem of shirt, wondering if she could really get the whole thing to unravel right there at the table—she wondered if he'd notice.

"Hey—how'd you like to watch a movie in the theater?" Logan's voice interrupted her shirt-destruction.

"Oh, yeah. Sounds fun."

"I hope so. It hasn't been used yet."

"Really?" she asked with a look he could only describe as pained.

"Really."

They left their dishes on the kitchen table and made their way back to the theater. Logan did his best to clear most of the dust from the room, but neither of them could escape a few hearty coughs.

"So what should we watch?" he asked, nodding toward the floor to ceiling shelves filled with movies.

"Oh, Logan," she said, gazing at the selection reverently, "I could never choose. Let's pick one how we used to whenever we were at Martha's Vineyard."

He laughed and nodded in agreement.

Rory stood directly in front of the lines of movies, and she shivered as she felt Logan approach her from behind. He brought his hands up to cover her eyes, and the shift in the air between them couldn't be ignored. She forced a smile on her face and tried desperately to disregard his breath tickling the back of her neck.

He could feel the air between them crackle the second he came up behind her, and his whole arms were now tingling. Logan felt her long lashes fluttering against his palms, and he struggled to keep his breathing normal.

Rory took a deep breath and ordered herself to just pick a movie already. His hands on her face were enough to drive her mad. Rory shakily raised her arm and blindly ran her hand over the shelves of movies. When she finally landed on one that felt right, she pulled it out and held it before her, clutching it tightly so her trembling hands wouldn't drop the damn thing.

Logan peeked over her shoulder, still keeping her eyes covered.

She heard him groan. "What is it?"

He slid his hands away, and she saw the movie. Rory chuckled.

_Philadelphia. _

"This is a great movie!"

"I agree with you. But it's such a game killer! Pick again."

She rolled her eyes but couldn't help smiling at his words. "You know the rules. No repicks, no how, no way. Now let's go watch one of the saddest AIDS movies known to man."

* * *

Logan brushed his lips lightly on Rory's forehead, which was currently pressed against his arm just below the shoulder. Though she was asleep, her eyelids were still puffy and red. She'd cried; Rory had a way of getting invested in life-like films like this. Most of the time she was a true movie mocker, but he had been present for the handful of plotlines that affected her on a personal level. And the struggle of Andrew Beckett was one of such plotlines. Of course she'd been embarrassed to cry at what she knew was just a movie, but that didn't stop her. And she still loved _Philadelphia_; he could tell. 

Not that loving the film stopped her from falling asleep against his arm in the last two minutes. He'd chuckled to himself at the time. They'd had a late dinner and started the movie at about 9:00. But it wasn't even eleven before she was curled into a ball in the theater style seat with her head resting comfortably on him. Although it wasn't so comfortable for him.

He was still wearing his suit, tie, and fancy shoes, and he couldn't make himself comfortable in any position without having to shift her too much. Plus he was freezing cold all of a sudden.

But the discomfort was the last thing on his brain. Thoughts of her, of Rory and the countless times they'd slept like this ran through his mind…there was the night spent on that park bench after a long, rowdy Life and Death Brigade event, there were countless airplane trips, they'd slept on each other sitting up on a few long car rides, there was the time on the floor leaning against the wall outside Finn's apartment in Morocco that time he'd invited them to spend the week but gotten them all locked out at 3 in the morning, and there was the time in the hospital waiting room after her grandfather had had heart troubles.

He considered going to one of the computers and printing a picture of Richard Gere, but thought the better of it. He wasn't getting up for anything.

Logan repositioned himself—perhaps just as awkwardly as he'd been before—and leaned his head on top of hers.

Just before he drifted off, he set his watch alarm; he had work the next day.

* * *

He worked from 6:00 AM to 10:00 PM on Saturday, but that didn't stop them from sharing the tacos he brought home for a very late dinner and repeating the watching of a movie(and movie-picking process) of the day before. And Logan had been equally unlucky on the movie selection. 

_The Champ._

Arguably even more depressing than _Philadelphia_. Especially since Rory absolutely loved Ricky Shroder.

But tonight they changed the venue. They watched in the little room connected to the theater—the one with the lumpy old couch, banged up television, and familiar pictures on the walls.

Ten minutes into the movie, they'd deemed the battered sofa unbearable and moved to the floor. Logan retrieved a blanket from the laundry room and they entwined themselves under the warm covers.

Inevitably, Rory became teary-eyed. Not just for the movie—though it was impossible not to cry at TJ's undying devotion to the battered old Champ—but for the environment in which she watched the movie. She cried for all Logan had done for her in making this room perfect, for everything she missed about home, for how Logan's arms around her provided comfort (funny how such a great thing contributed to her weepiness). The film ended, and Rory allowed a last deluge of tears to fall from her eyes.

She was impatient to get over the emotion swelling inside of her (and embarrassed at crying two nights in a row in front of her new-old-sort of undefined-boyfriend[???). Rory hastily ran the back of her hand across her eyes.

Logan caught her wrist and brought it down to her side. He slowly wiped the tears, first one eye and then from the other, with the pad of his thumb.

She batted his hand away, frustrated. "Why don't you ever cry at movies?" she demanded testily.

"Because I have a penis," he offered with a cheeky smile.

"Ha. Ha. Seriously. Haven't you ever been really touched by a great movie?" She had completely regained her composure. If not for the redness around her eyes, one would never guess she'd been crying seconds ago. Rory was definitely in full attack mode.

"Umm—"

"Oh, come on. _Beaches_? _Terms of Endearment_? Was it _Steel Magnolias_ that did you in?"

"Okay, fine. There was one movie in which I might have shed a tear or two—but only the first time I saw it."

"It was _Brian's Song_ wasn't it?"

He laughed at her matter-of-fact tone. "Nope."

"_Green Mile_?"

"No ma'am."

"_The Life of David Gale_?"

"Not even close."

"Okay this me-guessing-and-you-saying-no-to-every-one shtick is getting old. Out with it."

"Alright, I'll tell you. The only movie I ever cried at was…_Rudy_.

"_Rudy_? You mean the one with little Sam Gamgee?" she asked in a high, babyish voice.

"Sam Gamgee was Rudy. Not the other way around," he said stubbornly.

"Actually, _Goonies_ takes precedence. Sean Astin should be referred to as Mikey at all times."

"Sorry. To me, he'll always be Rudy Ruettiger."

Rory gave an exaggerated sigh. "Okay, sir. Explain yourself. What about _Rudy _turned you into a blubbering sack of girly emotion?"

The playful expression on Rory's face sombered when she saw the far off look in Logan's eyes. It was a full thirty seconds before he spoke, and his voice was hushed.

"His teammates loved him," Logan stated simply. "Not for what he had—he didn't have anything. It was for his heart. Rudy never gave up; he never stopped trying—even though what he was working for didn't matter. It was a game. A football game that so many others took for granted. It didn't matter to them, but it mattered to him; he didn't let their perception muddle his. He was willing to sacrifice everything for a football team. _His_ football team. Which he loved unconditionally. And that blind devotion caused the team to look to him—little Rudy, '5 foot nothin', 100 and nothin', and with barely a speck of athletic ability'—as a hero. They carried him off the field after one play—a play which wouldn't have had any effect on the outcome of the game one way or the other—because they loved him. No one's had that honor since, and that's a testament to just how singular Rudy's situation was. The movie is truly genuine; in a world of big Hollywood productions, a sincere little piece with a simple message is becoming more and more of a rarity." Rory watched him as he seemed to think some more; she was silent, almost afraid to breathe because it would risk interrupting his poignant explanation. "Another factor, I think, was that at the time I really wanted to go to Notre Dame, but I knew I'd never make it there. That movie defined what I would never have because of legacy, what was proper, what was expected, and the iron fist of my father. I loved the camaraderie associated with Notre Dame," Logan seemed to return to the room, for a small smirk appeared on his face, "but I knew I was destined for stupid old Yale."

Rory visibly gristled at the slight to her beloved Yale.

He smiled. "Hey, I'm not looking for a fight. Stupid old Yale did pretty well by me."

His dark brown eyes connected with hers, and she immediately knew the meaning behind his words. He was referring to her. But his compliment failed to distract her from his earlier heartfelt words about a simple movie.

Rory raised a small hand and lightly traced his jawline. She smiled sadly at him. This man was always full of surprises. He was complex, and while most viewed him as a shallow prick or a rich snob, those were the ones who didn't bother to really see the guy. Very few had delved into the depths of Logan Huntzberger. She doubted he allowed Finn and Colin to see his vulnerable side—not in that chauvinistic boy's club. They were best friends, but they were male best friends. Male best friends raised in a society where emotions in general were discouraged and passionate feelings dismissed altogether. If Logan were to share his other side, they'd probably call him a pussy, get him drunk, and that would be the end of it. She guessed the only person Logan might confide in would be Honor. But even that connection was iffy. The siblings really didn't speak too often. They lived separate lives and ran in separate circles. Logan had no Lorelai, no Lane, not even a Paris—as he'd told her a few days ago. Rory was his link to his inner self, and he needed her. About as much as she needed him. For who else would link her to the outside of world of the new, the exciting, the unexplored? She had left him to tackle all that on her own, but without him, she was incompetent in that scary world. Logan gave her confidence in herself and allowed her to be someone she could only be in his presence. And she loved that person—that part of herself so rarely brought to the surface.

Dean had liked (not loved, because her standards for love had raised long ago—no more of that high school shit) her because he found her exciting. She was the exciting one in their relationship. And that was not good. Jess had liked her for her equal smarts; they'd had hours-long conversations about literature. Logan, on the other hand, loved her because…well she wasn't quite sure. He could get anyone in any package he desired. With the status, the bank account, the wit, the concrete smarts, the charm, and the looks. But he chose her. Because he loved _her_. There was no one specific trait. It was everything about her that he loved. And she knew that. She truly did.

Each slowly became aware of the steady passing of time as they lay very close to each other on the floor of the cramped little room. But they ignored it. Logan and Rory were silent, not bothering to discuss the fact that they would be sleeping there. It was mutually agreed upon without a word. Neither wanted to sleep apart from the other.

He'd told her as they'd eaten dinner that he didn't have to work the next day. Which she planned to take advantage of as best she could.

Her last thoughts as she fell asleep were that tomorrow would be a day for the ages.

* * *

Rory sipped her Coke and leaned back, sighing contentedly. They'd had another day of casual togetherness, and it had been absolutely perfect. 

They'd gone to the gym. Logan had lifted weights and Rory had sat in the sauna listening in on the local gossip. She'd even heard Logan's name thrown around a couple of times. No one seemed to know who the mystery woman he'd been seen with was.

They'd gotten lunch at a hot dog stand and ate as they walked down the street.

Logan had taken a few work calls. Those would always be inescapable.

They'd gone to the post office to pick up the package of her clothes her mother had finally mailed.

The pair had stopped and watched a group of street performers for more than half an hour. Rory had spied Logan drop a fifty dollar bill into the hat placed on the ground to collect money.

They'd gone to a nearby park—Logan had taken his laptop, Rory'd brought a book. She'd gotten inspired to write an article (to try to submit to Hugo later as a freelance piece), had stolen his laptop, and had made him read her novel. After a few minutes of which, he'd abandoned the book to join a pick up baseball game. The tail end of which she'd watched, cheering him on next to a woman with more tattoos than even the most expressive motorcycle gang member. Her name was Cheryl, and she was an Orioles fan—whatever that meant.

Currently, it was late afternoon, and she and Logan were at sea. Apparently Logan owned a sailboat. Go figure.

They hadn't been on a boat together since—well, since they'd stolen one.

And before they'd heard the coast guard on the bullhorn, that last trip had been a good one, too.

Logan was an excellent sailor, and she was currently watching him make some sort of complicated-looking adjustments to shift their direction and take best advantage of the breeze.

He watched her sip her drink as he dealt with the mainsail. He chuckled to himself again at just how pathetic her attempt to help him had been. He'd coached through a few basic steps in sailing, but Rory was helpless. She'd inexplicably ended up getting the running rigging in knots. Eventually, he'd given up, handed her a Coke, and ordered her to sit and enjoy the view of the San Francisco Bay. Though she seemed to be intent on watching him; he felt her eyes on him as he made every move, and he had to put effort into focusing on his task.

He eventually had them set to go a long way in one direction on the breeze, and he sat down next to her. They both looked out on the water; it was absolutely gorgeous. The late afternoon sun gave the sky a golden tint, and, though it was January, they were comfortable in their long sleeve t-shirts.

Logan turned his gaze to Rory. Her dark brown hair was blowing lightly in the draft, and she had an unconscious smile on her face.

He thought over the last two days, since the time he'd heard her say she was ready. There had certainly been some tension between them—sexual and otherwise—but they hadn't kissed or had much other intimate contact. He was right about sad movies killing his game. But they had spent the nights together. He guessed that was progress. But he missed her lips on his, the feel of her bare skin, and the rush of being inside of her. Whether or not they were emotionally ready for that last one, he wasn't sure.

Rory kicked his leg gently. "So why a boat? What about today encouraged you to make us go sailing?"

"_Make _us go? You mean let you accompany me?"

She rolled her eyes.

"Oh, come on, we've had some of our best times on boats." He grinned at her. "And after we go to sea together, something interesting always happens."

"We've only gone to sea once, and if you think spending a few hours in jail, getting a million hours of community service assigned, moving in with my grandparents, fighting with my mother, and dropping out of school interesting…"

"I meant interesting for me. I also spent a couple of hours in jail, but I also think I saw _Revenge of the Sith_ that weekend. You've gotta admit, Ace, sneaking in and out of the pool house got to be kind of fun."

"So you took us out on a boat to try and get me to move back in with my grandparents. You, sir, are twisted."

"I also get to show off my new boat. And my improved sailing skills—though I guess one can't improve perfection. And…maybe this way you won't be doing any walking around on that bum ankle of yours…"

"Aha! The truth comes out! You're coddling me. Logan, I'm fine. The ankle—doesn't hurt at all. In fact, I think it's stronger than it was before. Regardless, I can take care of myself!"

"Paris and Doyle—_together_—in my own home—with orders to 'keep an eye on me.' Sound familiar?"

She gave him a sheepish look. "Okay, I guess sailing around the San Francisco Bay with you is a little bit better than bedrest with the most intense couple known to man."

"A little? Thanks for the flattery."

"I do my best. And really, your injury—way more intense than mine! You could've rebusted any and everything if you so much as moved wrong."

"Sure, but siccing Paris and Doyle on my only encouraged me to move wrong—either by getting the fuck out of there or doing my best to cane them to death." He sighed. "I wish I'd never gone on that damn trip."

"It was my fault. It was all my fault you almost died." Rory put her empty Coke can in a small trash bag and kept her eyes lowered, not looking at him.

"That is absolutely ridiculous—"

"Logan. Be realistic. You went to get away from me. And that's totally understandable. I was being a total bitch. And I've thought a lot about why. You slept with Honor's bridesmaids, and that hurt me. But you thought we were broken up. Which is also understandable. I left with Jess that night at the pub. But we didn't go home together. It's funny…I was always on Ross's side in the 'we were on a break' debacle. Of course, that could have been because I've hated Rachel since the whole Paolo thing…Anyway, I—I know you would never cheat on me. Not purposefully. I think I was mad because—because you moved on so fast. And I was left in the dark all that time. And—and even when you thought we were broken up, it took you weeks to decide you wanted to get back together. To decide that you loved me. I told you I loved you that night at the pool house, and I meant it. But, to me, it seemed like you only started to feel that way for me because I wasn't there anymore…and the fact that you were sleeping with other girls at the time just devalued the whole thing for me. I still loved you. And I know that you loved me. But I was still angry at you and at the whole situation. So I took everything out on you, all the time. I didn't want to have to face you, because I knew if I did, I'd have to forgive you because I was being irrational. So I kept my distance and blew you off and did my best to keep you the bad guy. And that drove you to take that trip and make that dive."

"Rory, don't you dare take any blame for my fall. Those girls—you have to know they meant nothing. I was trying to force myself to get over you, and, honestly, it didn't work. I still agonized over letting my stupid jealousy make me act like a jackass to you and to Jess, I still looked for you in every bar, every library, every coffee shop, every damn social engagement I went to, and I still thought about you every day. I didn't start loving you over what I thought was our break-up, I realized I'd loved you all along. Trust me, Rory, if I could take back those girls, those weeks, and those doubts you had, I would. I did everything I could to make it better, but nothing worked. You were still mad at me, and you had a right to be. We weren't back to normal. As much as I tried. So I compensated for that with going out with the guys more often and planning that idiotic LDB jump that nearly cost me my life." Rory's eyes were getting red, and he could tell she was fighting tears. She still didn't like to hear—or even think—about him almost dying. "Rather than stay and keep trying to work things out with you, I ran away. And that's my own damn fault. When that parachute didn't open…I thought about my life—everything I'd fucked up and the few things I'd managed to do right. And you know, I—I was almost happy the damn parachute wasn't working. I was almost happy that everything would just go away, would just stop. Nothing in my life was right—so why worry over it ending? I'd gone and ruined everything with you, and there was nothing else for me to live for. Nothing of value. But by then you were in my head, Ace. I couldn't bear to think that I'd never see you again or that the last time I did see you we weren't happy with each other. You were the only thing on my mind as I fell, Rory." His serious tone changed, and a small smirk formed on his face. "Of course, when I was finished falling and had actually landed, my thought process was pretty much 'Ow, ow, holy shit, ow.' And then blackness."

"Stop," she said mildly, some of the tears finally breaking through. Her voice was wavering. "D—don't make light of that. Getting that call—it was the worst experience of my life. If you hadn't made it…"

"Rory," he said warmly, trying to impart as much comfort in his voice as possible. "I'm fine. I survived." She was sniffling, trying to regain her composure—and failing miserably. "I'm right here."

He pulled her against his body, as if to prove the fact.

Her voice cracked. "And thank God."

She slung her arms around him, and he held her tightly. She cried silently into his neck.

Logan was touched by just how much she still cared—that accident had been almost two years ago.

When Rory had cried all her tears and left Logan's neck sufficiently dampened, she slowly lifted her head from its perch. She gave a shaky smile. "Well, now that we've dealt with a whole lot of unresolved issues from the ancient past, we can start to enjoy the view. You need to stop being so negative all the time, Logan."

"I call that bold talk for a one-eyed fat man," he said, rubbing her back.

"Me? Negative? Never. Me? Rooster Cogburn? Sometimes. Not today, though. I'm very aware that one must _acc-en-tu-ate the pos-i-tive and e-lim-in-ate the neg-a-tive_."

"Must you sing?" Logan called over her, but it was to no avail. She continued with her song until he put his hands over his ears in mock pain.

"My singing is not that bad, thank you. It's interesting that Noah and Jonah are referenced in that song, isn't it?"

"Because they're both in the Bible?"

"Because they both have to do with water." She spread her arms to gesture to the open bay around them. "That has to be a sign."

"I don't think so."

"You never were one for serendipity."

"You want me to eliminate the negative, huh?"

"And _acc-en-tu-ate the pos-i-tive_," she added, singing again.

Logan leaned down and kissed her, crushing her body into his again. He couldn't resist.

* * *

She collapsed on the couch, and he wasn't far behind. After a full day out and several nights spent on various sofas or floors, they were both exhausted. And hungry. At least she was. 

Rory sat up and sniffed loudly at the air. "Mmmm, it smells like pizza."

Logan inhaled deeply. "No it doesn't."

"Let me rephrase. It _should _smell like pizza."

He smiled and got to his feet to go for the phone in the kitchen.

"Pepperoni and sausage or everything?" he asked, remembering her favorites.

"Quadruple cheese and hot peppers," she said, answering with his favorite.

Logan made the order and turned back to her expectant face with a wince. "It'll be about an hour."

"What? What about your big tips? Don't tell me you don't have all the pizza chains in your pocket along with the Chinese franchises?"

"Luigi's just isn't susceptible to bribery."

"The last stronghold in the nation has to be the restaurant providing us dinner?"

"That's America for you."

He rejoined her on the couch, and they chatted of inconsequential things until Rory got to her feet, citing a need to visit the bathroom.

Logan heard a clunk and then Rory was down. He was at her side immediately; she'd hit her ankle against the leg of the coffee table, and now she was balled up, her knee to her chest.

Tears of pain leaked out of the corners of her eyes. Logan applied steady pressure to the joint, and instructed her to slow down her breathing.

"Why does this hurt worse than the first time?" she asked in a tight voice through clenched teeth.

"Poor Ace." Logan went to the kitchen and filled a baggy with ice, then helped her up to sit back on the couch.

"I am not going back on crutches," she said defensively (with no provocation whatsoever). He set the bag of ice gently on her ankle, and she winced at the cold.

"I didn't say you had to. Whether or not you should…"

"Logan," she warned, wiping at her eyes.

"Rory," he returned with equal threat. "You need to be careful. You're hurt. You may not realize that. But you are. And you could seriously redamage your ankle. The doctor said…"

And then she began to tune him out. She refused to continue listening to his words in that patronizing tone.

When he'd finished lecturing her and taken pause, she literally harrumphed.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You couldn't possibly be mad at me?" he asked, incredulous. He was trying to look out for her. And she had been a thousand times worse with the protectiveness when he'd been a little banged up. Okay…a lot banged up. But that was beside the point.

"So what if I am?"

"What I said was true."

"It's not what you said; it's how you said it." She stuck her lip out in a small pout.

"How'd I say it?" He was really trying not to act defensive; he was surprised at just how serious about this she looked.

"Like Judi Dench."

He caught himself mid-retort. His face changed in recognition. She was teasing him. Rory grinned impudently.

"Ouch," he recited, giving a sardonic smile.

She _would_ remember one of their first encounters word for word. He couldn't help but tackle her and pin her down to a prone position on the couch. She squealed.

"That reminds me, ma'am, that you never started calling me Master and Commander!"

"Ah! Stop, stop!"

He began to tickle her lightly in what he knew were her most sensitive spots. They were both laughing now.

"Logan! Stop! I—I still have to go to the—bathroom!"

He pretended to debate about letting her up.

"You want me to pee on you? Don't think I won't."

"Don't think I won't…what?"

She groaned, trying to get out from under his grasp.

"Don't make me say it."

He smiled. "Small price to pay to save your bladder from bursting."

She sighed overdramatically. "Please let me up so I may use the facilities, Master and Commander. Otherwise, Master and Commander, I will pee on you…_Master and Commander._"

"See, not difficult at all."

He laughed (and winced) when she punched him in the stomach as he let her up.

* * *

She'd dreaded this time all evening. The time she'd have to be alone in her own room in the dark. She and Logan had spent the last four nights together, and she didn't want to consider sleeping alone again. 

She guessed he probably wanted to share a bed with her, too. As they had before. But before they'd had excuses—movies and the like. There was no movie to fall asleep to tonight.

Rather than hunker down in front of one of his many screens, they'd sat up with glasses of wine and talked. There had been serious discussion about their time apart, their new goals, their new interests. There had been witty banter and plenty of teasing, naturally. There had been heated debates on a plethora of important current events. There had been heated debates on what new TV shows were best and whether Colin Farrell should still be considered an accredited actor. There had been a hearty recount of everything Richard Gere had done in the past eight months.

And it had been great.

But now—now, he had gone to his own room to sleep, and she was in hers. Rory stared angrily at the door. She'd slept in his arms the past four nights, and she was damned if she wasn't going to do so again tonight. She wanted nothing more than to sneak into his room and curl up in his embrace, as she'd done the night she'd called Tristan. So what if it was weird? She was a self-proclaimed weirdo. All this week, all these past eight months, in fact, she'd felt as if she were running with her eyes closed, blindly trying to find a path to 'what she wanted.' Though she didn't know what that was. But coming here had finally opened her eyes. Logan was what she wanted. Even blind, her path had led to him. And nothing would keep her away now. Not even the rules of sane society.

* * *

She tiptoed into his room, holding her breath to keep quiet. 

Logan, who'd been debating on whether or not to cross the hall and knock on Rory's door, heard the door open and quickly closed his eyes and slowed his breathing.

Rory lay down and cuddled up to his side. After a few minutes he shifted to bring her closer to him, trying to make it seem as if it were a natural movement of sleep.

He felt serene, at peace with the world—everyone and everything in it. He almost had drifted off to sleep, he felt so content with her form at his side. But then he heard her whispering voice.

"I love you. I really do." Rory felt a little foolish talking to the sleeping man next to her. But she wanted to get these things off her chest soon—and 'practice makes perfect.' "I want things back to the way they were. No, I want them better than what they were. I want everything for us. Together. I'm so sorry about these past months—it's all my fault we were apart. But we never have to be again. I'll move here. I'll work here. I'll call you Master and Commander every day for the rest of time. I'll do whatever it takes. Because I love everything about you. And that won't ever go away. _I love you_."

Logan peeked at her through squinted eyes and saw a couple of tears roll down her cheeks.

"I love you, too," he whispered, unable to hold the words back.

She gasped and stiffened. He turned to face her, and rubbed the sides of her arms soothingly. "I heard every word. And I feel the same way. I want you here with me, Rory."

She laughed through her tears. God, what was it with her and crying this weekend? Every ten minutes like clockwork she was bursting into tears. And she felt like an idiot for it.

"I'm sorry for sneaking into your bed—"

"Never apologize for something like that." He rested his forehead on hers. Their faces were almost touching.

She couldn't look anywhere but his deep chocolate eyes, gazing at her with such gentleness, such affection as she had never seen.

"It's creepy."

His eyes crinkled. "It's great." Logan leaned closer. "I've missed you." He whispered the words into the area just in front of her ear, letting his lips graze her sensitive skin.

Rory couldn't help but shiver at his sensual gesture. She knew the dual meaning of his words. And she had missed him, too. Rory had yearned for Logan in bed even when she had been with Tristan. "Ditto," she whispered back as he raised his head a little.

His eyes were on her lips, and the unnamable force that had been pulling at them all week took over. He kissed her, deep and long. It was a kiss full of promise. She audibly sighed when they broke apart. And he chuckled deep in his throat.

Rory returned her lips to his. He felt her hand at the waistband of his boxers.

"Rory," he murmured. But her lips met his again, silencing him. She nibbled gently on his bottom lip, sucking it into her mouth.

"Rory," he said, more firmly this time. She pulled back and stared at him with hazy blue eyes. "I—I think we should stop."

Saying the words was killing him. But they needed to slow down.

"It's late, and I've got work tomorrow. We have plenty of time to…" He caressed her inner thigh, and she bit her lip at the action.

"Okay," she said, feeling slightly rejected but knowing he was right.

She kissed him one last time and nestled deeper into his side. He brought his arms up around her and they settled in to sleep.

* * *

She woke up, feeling cold, and looked around, disoriented. She was in Logan's room. But where was Logan? It was late—between three and four in the morning was her guess. The room was pitch black and it took a while for her eyes to adjust. 

Rory finally spotted Logan sitting at his desk.

"Logan?" she called out, feeling unexpectedly anxious.

"You're awake." She could barely hear his response.

"Yeah…"

He leaned over and turned on the desk lamp. They were both silent for a moment. The moment seemed surreal; he was bathed in half-light from the lamp, she was still shrouded in darkness. He looked golden, unreal.

And troubled. She unconsciously bit her lip in worry and twisted the covers of the bed in her fingers. He wasn't reconsidering was he? He wasn't going to leave or ask her to leave, right?

He looked so sad.

"What is it?" she asked, her voice trembling, her eyes searching for his in the dark.

"What is what?"

"What is it keeping you out of bed?"

"Oh, uh—nothing. Don't worry about it."

"Is anything wrong?"

"Of course not, Ace." He shifted in his chair.

She stared at him, not sure what he wasn't telling her.

Rory hesitated. She was desperate to connect with him. She felt unbelievably vulnerable. And she yearned for him. She truly did. She finally spat out what she wanted to say. "Come to bed."

He cleared his throat, not quite sure he had heard her entreaty correctly. "What?"

He'd woken up with a jolt about an hour after Rory had joined him in bed. And, much as he'd tried, going back to sleep was impossible. So he'd sat at his desk thinking over the jump he'd just taken. He was putting his heart on the line after swearing he would never again subject himself to the type of pain only she had the power to instill. If it didn't work out this time…he wasn't sure he'd be able to recover. It was risk; he was willing to take it, but he couldn't help but be wary. He'd also been considering everything Rory would have to give up by moving to San Francisco. Was it fair to her? She shouldn't have to sacrifice everything for him. He couldn't let her.

"Come to bed," she pleaded softly. "Right now. I've missed you, too. Please."

Logan looked down at his hands. There was urgency in her voice, like she was tired of waiting. He'd wanted to wait till they were on stable ground. Were they? It damn well seemed that way. But he didn't want to rush anything…Not when they were starting over. Not when he wanted to assure that this fresh start was the real thing, that they were both in it for the long haul.

"Logan? Please?"


	19. Tell Me About the Rabbits

Logan slowly got to his feet, and walked toward her—but he wouldn't quite meet her eyes. Rory bit her lip nervously. His approach wasn't a purposeful I'm-going-to-go-have-sex-right-now-stride; this appeared to be more of an I'm-about-to-go-serve-up-some-rejection-shuffle.

He walked as if not really seeing her; Rory could practically see the fog he appeared to be navigating through. He paused when he reached the side of the bed.

Their eyes finally met and locked. Hers beseeching, his not giving a thing away. He sat rigidly on the bed. Rory frantically tried to prepare herself for supreme embarrassment; he was going to say no…again. He was _male_. And he was _Logan_. Shouldn't he want sex? He'd never turned an offer down before tonight. Not from her.

Logan took her hand in his and stared down at their intertwined digits. She could feel a lump in her throat and tears beginning to form. _No. Don't cry again._

"Rory," he said quietly, "I still don't know if we're really ready for this. You've only been here since the funeral. And after being apart for eight months…we're bound to want to jump into something physical right away. I think Dr. Phil would agree with me when I say that we should get a stronger foundation laid for this relationship before we sleep together again. Less than a week ago we were both with other people. Being together so soon after leaving them…that in itself would impart a good deal of guilt." His voice got a bit louder, but there still wasn't a hint of anger in it. "Before I met you, I had never been rejected—not by anyone or anything in life. Things seemed to remain that way until last year. And then all at once the business world rejected me, you rejected me, _I_ would've rejected me if I could've. At some point, I realized that being rejected, well, it isn't much fun. So I've been trying to protect myself from it. Being this close to you again…it scares me a little. Some part of me is afraid you'll leave. I'd be much more comfortable with situation if we waited until after I didn't feel this way anymore. In time, I'm sure that will happen. Don't get me wrong. I love you. And I know that you love me. But, for our own sakes, I don't think we should have sex tonight."

Humiliated, Rory looked away from his face, which was still intent on their hands.

"However," he continued, "what I think and what I want are two extremely different things right now. Having you here in my bed, ready and willing…I can't resist. It's just not possible. I want you, Rory. From the second you came back to me—when I spotted you across the room in that green dress and giant overcoat—I wanted you. I've always loved your body, and I always will. I want to feel you squirming in pleasure beneath me, I want to feel your hands on my bare back, I want to feel you climaxing around me as I do the same inside you. I'm willing to overlook the rational part of my brain and deal with consequences later—as long as I get to be with you right now. I said no once tonight, and it was one of the hardest things I've ever done. I don't have the will power or the desire to say no twice."

Rory half-heartedly attempted to keep the smile from her face as he spoke. Logan finally turned and met her eyes.

"So you have two options. Stay in this bed and take advantage of me," he wiggled his eyebrows and she felt a flood of relief at his finally-joking voice, "or go back to your room and wait for another opportunity—which will inevitably present itself. I swear that to you."

Rory struggled to find her voice. There were so many parts of what he'd said to which she wanted to respond. "True, I was with Tristan a week ago. But how long has it been since we spent the night together? Since the night before my graduation party. That's 241 days…give or take. Anyone that wasn't you doesn't even register in my sexual memory. Meaning it's been 241 days since I've had sex. And that's too damn long. I'm ready for a relationship, Logan. And I know you heard me say that earlier." He sheepishly began to re-apologize for his eavesdropping, but she raised her voice. "I want to be with you. Right now and for as long as you're willing. I'm not going anywhere. We may not be back to where we were but we're on our way. I promise you, I won't run if things get tough, or serious, or wonderful, or any possible adjective you could insert." He squeezed her hand, and she smiled brightly. "As for those options of yours…I've never been one to procrastinate. Why put off till tomorrow what you can do today?"

Logan placed one hand on the small of her back, the other on the nape of her neck, and pulled her to him. She kissed him eagerly, her arms snaking around his torso. He dipped his tongue into her mouth and she shivered; Rory massaged the muscle with her own tongue, biting down gently when she felt so inclined. His hand on her back slipped beneath the material of her tank top, and she felt his warm, rough skin tracing her hip bones, her backbone, her shoulder blades, and, then, sneaking around to her side, gripping her in ways that made her breath come shallow and quick and her nipples pert.

His other hand reached down and covered her breast, rubbing it through the fabric of her camisole. He felt her nipple poking through and that sent a jolt through his body. He guessed she wanted him almost as much as he wanted her—almost.

Logan rubbed his thumb around her areola, careful not to touch the center. Rory moaned into their kiss at this exquisite torture and after just a few seconds, couldn't take it anymore. She raised her hand to his arm and slowly pushed it down to rest on her hip. Then she took initiative and rested her palm on the outside of his boxers, lightly cupping his hard-on. He gulped, and settled back against the headboard as she pulled herself up his body to sit on top of him, his boxers aligned with her panties. She rubbed slowly against him, and he brought his hand to her hips to pull her down harder against him; he craved more pressure, more contact, more Rory.

She reached down and removed his shirt, then marveled at his muscular physique. Continuing to rub against his boxers, Rory leaned down (in what he considered an extremely flexible move), and trailed first her hands, then her tongue, down his chest and stomach.

After a fantastic while of this, he decided it was time to take control. Logan made a noise deep in his throat, and reached up to lift her tank top over her head, evening the clothing score. Rory sat up to let him undress her, and his experienced hands on her newly exposed flesh sent her goosebumps away.

Without warning he lifted her with his powerful arms and flipped their positions. He lay across the top of Rory's body, reveling in their closeness. He pressed the whole of his hand over her entire breast, massaging gently, feeling her nipple pressing into his palm. His free hand slipped between her thighs, touching her lightly through her thin layer of fabric. His hand slid to the top of her panties, and he hooked the waistband with his forefinger. Logan pulled the undergarment down, and she raised her hips to aid him in the removal. He kneeled between her legs, pulling her panties all the way off, rubbing her glorious legs with his hands as he went.

He flung her white cotton bikini (how very Rory) onto the floor and crept back up her body. Logan placed his palm against her core, feeling how wet she already was. She arched her back, causing her head to fall further against the pillow and her neck to be exposed. He kissed her throat and led a slow, heated path down to her breasts. He slowly began sucking her nipples, one at a time, as he diddled her swollen clit with his thumb. Rory began to writhe under his ministrations.

"Mmm, Logan," she called out huskily before she bit her lip—as she always did in foreplay.

His eyes met hers. They were hazy with lust and a darker blue than usual. Rory found that Logan's eyes were so dark as to be almost considered black.

"Go ahead, Ace," he encouraged, putting more pressure on her clitoris.

"No—no." She grabbed his hand. "I want to cum with you, at the—at the same time."

He kissed her deeply. She removed his boxers, letting her hands skim over his ass, his hips, and his erection for a few (too-brief for Logan) seconds. A loud 'unh' escaped his lips at her touch.

She chuckled deeply. She was about to respond with a witty comment when she felt him enter her and all thought left her mind.

"Fuck," he exhaled softly. Her wet, warm folds fit him perfectly and he took a few seconds to savor being inside of her again.

He slowly began to thrust, using his arms to support himself, hovering above her. Logan saw her eyelids flutter and then her dark, heavy-lidded blues fixate on him. His own eyes were hot and his scope was narrow. Nothing mattered but her.

For Rory, the rest of the room spun away and Logan above, his eyes burning and intent on her, and the wonderful sensation his powerful thrusting was sending throughout her body were all that existed. He picked up his pace, and she rose to meet him, matching him thrust for thrust. The sound of her heavy breathing and occasional moans of pleasure kept him going, pushing him to continue to drive her to orgasm.

"Mmph, oh Logan," she said gutturally as he hit a commanding, deeply penetrating stride. That familiar, extraordinary feeling was building up in her stomach. He felt her buck erratically underneath him and he knew she was starting to climax. Logan picked up his pace until she cried out and he felt her walls clamping around him. The sensation was enough to send him over the edge, and he came, hard.

Logan slowly removed himself from her and lay on his back next to her; both had to take a few seconds to catch their breath. Rory jumped when she felt his arm slide her over to his side. He kissed her forehead, her nose, and, finally, her lips, languidly rubbing her naked back all the while. She took a sharp intake of breath. God, it had been so long since she'd been held post-sex. Really, she'd fully expected him to turn away from her and start snoring as Tristan always had. But this was Logan—how had she ever lived without his soft caresses and sensual 'postplay?' Rory closed her eyes and buried her face in his shoulder to hide just how emotional this small gesture made her.

His face hardened at this reaction. How had she been treated over their breakup? He pulled her closer to him, not noticing that he was nearly crushing her.

"Hey there, Lennie," she sputtered, "loosen up a bit."

Logan let up on his grip (but not too much) and continued her (somewhat morbid) reference. "George, tell me about the rabbits."

She smiled up at him. "We'll have a vegetable patch, and chickens, and a rabbit hutch. When I get those coupla acres, you can tend the rabbits all you want." Logan buried his face in her hair. "And maybe we'll even have an avocado tree next to that rabbit hutch. We can have guacamole all we want and—"

"But what about the rabbits?" he cut her off, causing her to laugh and twist around to kiss him.

"All the rabbits you can handle."

To an outsider, or one who hadn't read _Of Mice and Men_, it probably would have seemed like meaningless babble. But there was implied message. It meant future.

**

* * *

**

They'd slept for an hour, at most, when The Beatles, singing far too cheerily from their Yellow Submarine, woke them at 6:00 AM. Rory simply rolled over in bed with a groan, but Logan, who had to work, got himself up. He rubbed her arm and whispered a morning greeting. He headed for the shower after she mumbled something indistinguishable.

When Rory heard the water running, she lifted her head up and actually allowed herself some conscious thought other than the desire to go back to sleep.

She took a few seconds to assess her feelings about what had happened with Logan just a few hours ago. Sheer joy was bubbling up in her chest; she was sure happiness was shining out of her, and she couldn't contain it. Eventually, Logan would come out of the bathroom and she'd still have this loopy grin on her face. Rory put her hand to her face to try to extinguish it, but her action was of no avail. She felt as if she were truly back together with Logan. She would be smiling all day, and Rory welcomed the sore cheeks.

She and Logan could repeat their sensual session tonight…and every night for the rest of her life. She had to gasp for air. The rest of her life!

Rory turned onto her other side and placed her head on the pillow again. She was happy, but she was still exhausted…and a little sore. And had she mentioned exhausted? Rory let her eyes close and images of their bodies tangling between the sheets entered her mind unbidden.

At some point, she heard the shower turn off, and Logan entered the bedroom, toweling himself off. Rory let her tired eyes feast on his stark nakedness. He switched on a set of lights and made his way to his closet.

"Dahh," Rory protested at the evil spotlights now directed straight at her eyes. She pulled the covers over her head. "I think I have jet lag," she called out.

"You've been in San Francisco for a week. And you came on a bus." Logan laughed as he started to get ready for work.

"It's delayed bus lag then."

"You came from the same time zone."

"Ummm—did I say jet lag and/or delayed bus lag? I meant sex lag. Or a sex hangover, one of the two."

"Understandable."

"It was good, huh?" she asked with a smile, slowly poking her head out from the covers and letting her eyes adjust to the light.

"You must be fishing for compliments, because good doesn't even begin to describe it."

"Which it are you referring to? The first it, or the second, or the third?"

He grinned, almost savagely. "How could I ever choose?"

"I think I was most partial to round number two—you've gotten more flexible over—"

As she spoke, Logan finished tying his shoe and flicked on another set of lights so he could search for his briefcase. Rory stopped mid-sentence, groaned, and shut her eyes tight.

"Why? Why does your room have to rival the sun? No one needs this much light."

"Cheer up, sleepy Jean. After I go, you can shut off all the lights, make this your cave, and stay in bed all day." He found his briefcase shoved under his a bedside table and set it on the bed next to Rory to look through it, making sure he had all his necessary papers.

"Well, that'd be no fun without you."

She lightly kicked the briefcase off the bed and pulled him down to sit next to her. Rory kissed Logan deeply, making his lips ache for more when she pulled away.

"What does Finn always say the best cure for a hangover is?"

"More booze?"

She kissed him another time. "Precisely. Therefore, using the transitive property, the best cure for a sex hangover is more sex."

He smiled. "Rory, I have to go to work. I have actual responsibilities now, remember?"

She pressed her lips to his once again. Damn, this woman was sexy. "Pish posh."

"I'm having déjà vu. This is just like the morning of the breakfast meeting with Bobbi and Phillip. You tried to hypnotize me into missing work and I had to use all my will power to rise above and not get there twenty minutes late."

"My powers of persuasion have increased tenfold since then." She kissed him again, this time nibbling gently on his lips.

He smirked. "You're going to kill me, woman."

"I'm good with coercion," she mumbled into his mouth as he lay back on the bed, taking her with him.

After they'd made out for a few minutes, she began to undo his tie, but the clock caught Logan's eye and he caught her hands in his.

"Mm—no. No." He sat up and gently pushed her away. "I have to go to work. I should've set the alarm for earlier, so I'm already running late." Logan cupped her cheek in his hand. "But trust me, the second I get home…let me just advise you not to stray too far from this bed."

Rory's pout turned to a wry smile at his last words. Logan kissed her once more, rose from the bed, picked up his briefcase, and made it as far as the hallway before he heard Rory call out to him. She scampered up behind him, draped in sheets.

"Wait, wait! Logan, listen…" she took a deep breath. "I just—I was just wondering if maybe…um." Rory scrambled to find words to express herself. "I love being here with you and I could see it being—um—being a place I always love…"

Why couldn't she just spit it out? Rory sighed. She finally decided to use a literary reference. Steinbeck had been cute earlier in bed; now she would cite another favorite offer. For she certainly come up with the words herself. Rory straightened her shoulders and prepared herself to speak possibly life-changing words.

"Unlike most, I have always agreed with Mr. Collins in respect to women. We are fickle, and we can't make up our minds, and we often say what we don't mean the first time we're asked a question. So we need to be asked some particular questions three or four times before we get it right." She looked at him eagerly, watching for a reaction.

"Huh?" he had been unable to follow her rapid words referencing what he thought was an Austen novel he'd probably read half of once for a high school project.

Rory's clear blue eyes were glued to his face. "Ask me again," she pled quietly.

"What?"

"Ask me again," she said more clearly.

"What?" he echoed himself in a whisper, finally understanding what she wanted. He was completely surprised by this—if someone had had a feather he would've run for cover.

"Logan," she said, a little exasperated.

He hesitated. "I—"

"Fine. I'll ask you." Rory bent down on one knee, sheet toga and all, and took his briefcase-free hand in hers. "You are the best man I have ever known. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Don't hold it against me that I don't have a ring; just answer this question as if I did—because I can get one, soon. You'll just have to tell me where I can get one because I don't remember seeing any affordable places in my city exploration. Not that I was really on the lookout, but who can blame me? Anyway, back on track. Logan, I made a mistake eight months ago. I want to be your wife. I love you, and I'm asking if you'll marry me."

"Rory…I can't."

**

* * *

**

**AN: Please review if you have the time**


	20. You Can't Roller Skate in a Buffalo Herd

Rory's brow furrowed slightly and her grasp on his hand went lax. Those shining blue eyes lost some of their brilliant wattage and she looked down, seemingly confused. He could practically see her mind whirring into overdrive, trying to figure out the reasoning behind his response. And the implications. Logan was able to pinpoint the second his words really hit her. Her entire face seemed to tense up and she tilted her head up at him with eyes that shifted between sorrowful and irate. Rory dropped his hand quickly and pulled the sheets tighter to her body. He shifted his briefcase to the hand she'd held, not wanting to feel the sting of its emptiness.

He gulped.

_Fuck_.

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. _

This wasn't fair. Sure, he wasn't expecting her to say 'Okay, no big,' but she was getting visibly upset. She was getting less sad and surprised and more indignant and, well, _pissed_ by the second.

_Damnit!_

They were almost back to the way they'd been. This morning had been so idyllically perfect. And now…

"I—I'm sorry. Did you say _can't_?" She got to her feet and assumed attack position.

He bristled at her tone (she was in the wrong here, not him) but chose to get the hell out of his apartment before either of them began saying things they'd regret.

"I have to go to work."

Logan turned on his heel and was almost to the front door by the time she caught up with him.

"_Hey! _Wait a second! You can't just leave! Not after _that_."

Logan closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and turned to face her and her impending tirade.

"What do you mean _can't_? Eight months ago you damn well could!"

"Rory—"

"If anything, you _won't_. And I'd like to know why the hell not!"

He forcibly unclenched his teeth and ordered himself to keep his temper in check. The fact that _she _was mad at _him_…it was enough to make him lash out in a very irrational way. It was imperative that he keep his head.

Logan's voice was low, but the anger she was expecting was absent.

"Ace—"

"_Don't call me that_."

He sighed.

"Rory, I _told_ you. Last night, I _told_ you I didn't think we were even ready for sex. But you pushed and, well, I wanted it. I wanted _you_; if I ever say otherwise, I'm lying through my teeth. You said you missed me, and I missed you, too. Last night was great; I don't regret it. But we'd definitely regret it if we got engaged now…especially like this. With no thought put into it."

"_No thought_?! What have you been doing the last eight months? I spent every waking moment thinking about us and how we should have been together! You say I haven't thought this out, but that's the only thing I did all that time!"

"_All that time_. Exactly. You've been here for a week, Rory." He sighed. "I could never say that we don't know each other anymore. I'll always know that you can't stand it when people don't say thank you after someone holds the door open for them, that tonic water makes you sneeze on the first sip every time, and that you pretend you're not going to sneak back later and hand over all your change when you pass a homeless person on the street. You'll always know that I love chili and cottage cheese together, that my bluffing tell in poker is simultaneously biting one cheek and rubbing my knees together, and that about 90 of the time, I'd rather stay in with you than go out and party."

Her face softened a little at his words, and he took this as a good sign. Too bad he was going to say what he had to say.

"But it's more complicated now. We were alone for months and then with other people for months. We had new and different experiences without each other. And we both had dangerous emotions festering inside of us. We changed. Both of us did. Like it or not, we're different people than we were. And we need to get to know each other again. For more than a week. Face it, Rory; we have a whole new dynamic now. You can't just ignore that and jump the gun like this. I was looking forward to getting reacquainted with you in an environment cohesive to our development, but you just stripped it away. That's not fair."

She stared at him, totally incredulous that he could be so hypocritical and ridiculous at the same time.

"Bullshit! You may recall that when you were doing the proposing with your perfect circumstances, the idea of marriage was great. Because it was convenient for you at the time. You needed someone with you way out in California; no way were you going alone. So why not get me to agree to marry you so I'd have to tag along and keep you company between working hours?"

"That's not—"

"But now that you aren't in control and you didn't get to plan how it would fit in with your life, you want no part in marrying me. The tables are turned, and you don't like it. Jerking me around and telling me you love me, then saying you _can't_?_ That_'s not fair. I wish that for once you would face your issues like the man you claim to be.You're such a goddamned _coward_, Logan."

Rory's words were full of conviction, and he very nearly believed she believed them. But he knew she was just great in an argument; she knew how to get to him and lost all rationale when she was on the offensive. He had to resist the desire to blow up at her. He struggled to keep his voice calm.

"A coward? Maybe I am. Maybe I am afraid we won't make it. Mostly because you rejected the idea of marriage with me once. Maybe you _were_ right. Maybe getting married wasn't right for us then. But if we weren't ready eight months ago, what makes us ready now? The fact that we missed each other? That's not enough. Give us a chance to build a truly stable relationship before we take it to the next level."

"Logan, we _are _stable. You have some sort of crazy delusion that I don't want to be with you. I want—"

He cut her off, not able to keep the edge out of his voice this time.

"How do I know if being with me is what you _really_ want? Not only am I not sure if I trust you, I'm not sure if I trust your judgment. In the course of our relationship, I've seen you make some pretty fucked up decisions at the drop of a hat. You may think you're methodical and that you think through every little detail eons before you work up the guts to _do_ anything, but that's just not true. You're impulsive, Rory. You do what makes you feel good regardless of how it will affect everyone else."

She gaped openly. How the fuck was she supposed to respond to that? She was _happy_ here with him. She thought he was happy. And now he was attacking her for trying to ensure that happiness was maintained. She was just trying to make up for her mistake that fateful graduation day. Plus, his argument was cracked. Sure, she'd run off to New York once to see Jess and missed her mother's graduation, she had slept with Dean while he was married, and there was the time she'd stolen a boat, dropped out of school, moved in with her grandparents, and alienated her mother…Oh, God, what if he was right?

No.

His words may have had a bit of credence, but he was in the wrong here. Logan was the spontaneous one, wasn't he? He was just pissed that she was filling that role for once. Petty bastard.

"Wasn't it _you_ who said you stop, you die?" she seethed.

"I've grown up since then. I learned from everything that happened with my business and with you that if you charge ahead blindly, you inevitably suffer painfully. And if you don't slow down to enjoy what you have, you lose it without ever really getting to appreciate it."

The look on his face almost folded her. She'd burned him. And now she was ambushing him. Maybe he was right about everything. Maybe she should just apologize.

But her stubbornness and pride wouldn't permit her to do so. Her inner Lorelai forbid admission of wrongdoing. Surrender wasn't an option.

"You cocky asshole of a hypocrite! Do you even hear yourself? You change your ideals and your values whenever it suits your predicament. Butt-faced miscreant? I meant fucked-up narcissist with a manipulative streak. You take advantage of people with no heed to their feelings whatsoever. If it's right for you, it's right for everyone. And if it's not right for everyone, you just waltz in and charm them into agreeing with you. You use that charm like a shield; you keep people from getting close because you don't want people to see the real you. Because the real you is repulsive. Incapable of feeling. You don't know how to love. You only know how to do two things: fuck up and fuck your line of meaningless sluts. I don't know why I thought you could handle commitment. You should go back to your random fucks. They're all you can handle. Or, better yet, run after Grace Talbot and beg her to take you back. You two were _so perfect_ for each other. I'm sure Tristan would be happy to marry me. He actually cared about me, _loved_ me even. And I let him. Because who else would do the job? You? The second I didn't fold to your will of marrying you on the spot, you just quit. You withdrew your 'undying love' and ran away. Your love's as cheap as your women, Logan. And it'll only be so long before you're stuck with one of those women for life. You think you're successfully avoiding your parents' world and stepping in only when you have to, but you couldn't be more wrong. That society world is yours, too, and you fit right in. You certainly meet the criteria. You think you're better than anyone your family has deemed below you, and, at the same time, you think you're better than everyone your family _does_ associate with. You're so busy being high and mighty all the time that you treat people like shit without a second thought. People like _you _are the reason I hate that world and could never be a part of it. Thank you, _thank you_ for saying _I can't_. You really saved me. Phew, dodged that bullet twice; I should go play the lottery. I wouldn't ever want to be tied down to _you_, Logan Huntzberger. Never. We both know you'll end up a pathetic _drunk_ who fucks around on his wife, regardless of whether that wife is me or some society slut you get pregnant that your parents force you to marry, You'll be the guy who does everything in his power to ruin the lives of others. Just like Daddy Dearest. You become more like Mitchum every day, and there's nothing you can do to stop it. You are your father. With the exception of his brilliant business mind. So fine, _go to work_! Go to the office and work your life away. I don't care anymore. I _can't_."

Her chest was heaving from the rant she'd just delivered with such malice. Unfortunately, she'd run out of things to say, so now she was facing a very quiet Logan who had stood there and taken everything she'd said with a bleak look on his face. She wondered why he wasn't responding in kind to her cutting words and verbally attacking her. He was supposed to be verbally attacking her.

Logan's eyes were blank and after a few seconds he said evenly, "I'll be back late."

Uh-oh. This wasn't right. She wanted him to retaliate. She wanted him to give her a reason to keep being mad at him. She wanted to be the victim, not the villain. Rory scrambled for words, trying to goad him into continuing the fight.

"Don't expect me to be here!" She couldn't keep her voice from wavering a little.

Logan nodded silently, turned, and left.

* * *

"Hello?"

Logan had just sat down at his desk when his cell phone rang. Upon checking the caller ID, he was a little disappointed to see that it wasn't Rory calling to start the amend-making process. She'd said some terrible things, and he was definitely angry, but he understood why she'd railed on him with such gusto. Women scorned and all that...

Logan answered Finn's phone call on the fourth ring.

"How much does one tip a Sherpa?"

"Depends on the amount of heavy lifting, the distance, and the terrain."

"An extremely sloshed me, three miles, whatever kind of terrain Lalitpur has—it was kind of a blur."

"Lalitpur?"

"It's in Nepal, Logan. I'm surprised at your geographical ignorance."

"Hm, well I'd suggest at least a crisp hundred. Especially if you were in that flirtatious stage of drunk you often get in."

"Ah, then I over tipped him. Oh well, maybe now he can get his llama a saddle that doesn't leave one's balls chafed and irritated."

"So should I take this Nepal thing at face value, or is it an embellishment of some Middle East-themed club you got shitfaced at last night? Where have you been all week?"

"To infinity and beyond!"

His words were definitely more slurred than usual.

"You're drunk? Finn, it's 7:30 in the morning."

"Not in Nepal. I don't know what the actual time is here, but I know it isn't 7:30."

"You're really in Nepal? Weren't you and Colin supposed to give me a call so we could get together while you were in town? You know, like a week ago?"

"Aye mate, we figured it'd be a better idea to leave you alone with your girl."

Logan winced, hoping his friend wouldn't continue on that particular subject. Luckily, the Australian charged right on.

"Plus, I didn't really need you anymore seeing as that damned Deena Tillman up and married her manager four days ago. Her bloody fifty-year-old manager! That Celine Dion should be locked up for the example she set. This was the last straw. I'm off red heads. Now I'm on to divorcées. They don't trust men so they don't want commitment. Truly, I'm a genius. So, in regard to visiting you in San Francisco, unless you have Uma Thurman's number, you can go jump in a ditch for all I care."

"You have one in mind?"

Finn was oblivious to Logan's cheerless tone and sarcastic remark. He chattered on about the benefits of dating divorced women. And then he went where Logan had hoped he wouldn't go.

"So how is reporter girl? Sweet and innocent as always? You dropped that Talbot girl didn't you?"

"Hey, buddy, I have to get to work."

"You can't get out of answering my questions that easily, Mr. Gloom! Tell Dr. Finn all your troubles."

He sighed but figured it'd be easiest to tell Finn now rather than suffer through his twisted interrogation.

"Yes, Grace and I are over. And Rory and I were doing really well until this morning. She—she proposed out of nowhere. Then we both said some things…We just had one of the biggest fights we've ever had. And this time it didn't end in dry humping."

"Do your fights usually end in dry humping? If so I really need to get on reporter girl's bad side!"

"It only happened once. Wednesday, actually. God, I thought that if Rory and I ever got back together, everything would be effortless. We'd just fall back into stride and be fantastic again."

"That's pretty naïve for you, Logan."

"I'm well aware of that now. Trust me."

* * *

Rory bit into her salami and cheese sandwich miserably. She'd gone through a wide range of emotions since Logan had walked out the door, and now she just wanted to crawl into some sort of large hole and stay there forever.

She'd been angry, so angry she'd almost stormed out of his apartment and caught a taxi to the airport to try and get a ticket on a flight back East. And then she'd been hit with debilitating sadness. For he had rejected her. And if he'd said yes she could've been deliriously happy right now. And she was sad for what their relationship (if one could even call it that) would be now, after that fight. And then she'd felt a rush of embarrassment. She'd proposed to him in a sheet toga! And chased him down the hallway after he'd said he couldn't marry her. Oh, it was all so humiliating.

Finally, she had let herself analyze the whole situation objectively. She'd wanted to decipher just how this morning had snowballed so quickly.

And after a lot of thought, she'd decided she'd been totally out of line. What the fuck had she been thinking? She'd misjudged what he wanted. She'd misjudged what _she_ wanted. He'd been right about her in almost every way. And she'd managed to hurt him again.

She was one royal amazing fuck up.

What if she'd caused a setback that would ultimately be the end of them?

After quite a bit of lamenting, Rory had realized she was starving and wandered into the kitchen.

Cold salami with a small slice of American cheese on wheat was all she deserved right now. So she ate her sandwich and wallowed.

Because she'd probably still have to leave. There was no apologizing for what she'd said. And she knew Logan wouldn't kick her out. So she had to be the one to stop imposing and move out ASAP. She needed to let him get on with his life. Breaking up last May had been the right path for them after all.

Maybe she could get back on the tour if she sent Hugo some sort of baked goods or sports tickets…

The flashing red light on Rory's cell phone caught her attention as she was debating whether Hugo's favorite baseball team was the Bills or the Rangers. Stupid baseball.

She realized she'd silenced her phone yesterday afternoon and forgotten to turn the ringer back on. Rory crossed the room to pick up her phone, noting on the way that her limp was almost completely gone. Well that was one thing to be happy about: her super-quick healing skills. Too bad that didn't help her situation at all.

Apparently she had a message from last night. From Lane. Whom she hadn't spoken to since their fight about Tristan. She took a deep breath before dialing her voicemail and putting the phone to her ear.

"Hi, Rory. It's Lane on Sunday afternoon. I guess you're not there…Lorelai told Mama that you had left the tour and were settled in San Francisco for now. Which I assume means you're with Logan again. I just wanted to tell you that I think that's great. Logan was always wonderful to Zach and me. And to you, of course. He loves you, Rory. You love him. As far as rich, hunky, blonds go, he's the best choice. So stay there with him. Come back to Stars Hollow for all major and minor holidays, of course. But stay in San Francisco with Logan otherwise. Because you two belong together. Tristan just wasn't right for you. You used him to try to force yourself to get over the real love of your life. Maybe you realized that and that's why you stayed in California. I hope you and Logan can work things out this time. I just want you to be happy. Okay. I said my piece. I'm sure you don't really want my opinion, but there it was. I support you in whatever you choose to do. That's what best friends are for. Anyway, the band's almost finished with the tour. I'm really excited to be finished, strangely enough. I want to spend some alone time with my family. How's San Francisco? You know who I miss? The California Raisins. They show more of them out there, or is it about the same as back East? Please call me back and, uh, let me know. Bye."

It was after hearing Lane's message that Rory knew she had to stick it out. Lane was right. Logan loved her, and she loved Logan. She'd told him she wasn't going to run if their relationship got hard. It was going to be hard now. But she was in it for the long haul. She'd just have to wait out whatever awkwardness would undoubtedly hover between them in the near future. It, too, would pass.

With that decided Rory felt immensely better, more at ease. She dialed her best friend's number from memory.

"Rory?" a very sleepy voice answered.

"Hi, Lane."

"Is it really you?"

"I haven't seen any sign of the California Raisins. And it's one of my chief complaints. But let's talk about you first. Where are you? How's the tour? How's Zach? How're the twins? Have Gil and Brian been fighting? Any big _Spinal Tap _moments? Have you met anyone famous? Are you famous?"

Lane's laughter brought a smile to Rory's face. She'd missed her best friend.

* * *

Rory turned her (new) ringer back on after speaking with Lane and returned to her sandwich. After about five minutes, her phone let out a shrill rendition of Haddaway's "What is Love." Not recognizing the number, Rory picked up the phone with some caution. She wasn't going to get conned into some great new minutes plan that forbid her from making calls past 7:00 PM. Not again, anyway.

"Hello?"

"Ah, so you aren't dead. You know, when most people up and leave their jobs, they inform their bosses."

"You aren't my boss, Greg," she groaned. She did not want to deal with this anal fellow reporter.

"As I hear tell, no one is. Listen, Gilmore, you made a big breach of protocol and created a safety risk. When you leave the tour, you tell me. I keep the list; I need to be informed when someone shouldn't be on it anymore!"

"I apologize, Greg, but I guess I thought you'd figure it out. Or the real tour director or Hugo or Tristan would have told you."

"That Dugrey is too busy partaking in sin with Matthews to tell anyone anything."

Rory's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Tina Matthews?"

"Yes, she's replaced you in the most wanton, disrespectable couple on this bus. I'm beginning to think that Dugrey has some sort of unseemly influence on young ladies. I'll probably suggest he be removed from his position next time I speak with the director."

"Let me know how far you get with that one," Rory said dryly. She was trying to process just how she felt about this. She felt nothing at the thought that Tristan was with someone else. The fact that Tina was moving in on what was supposed to be "her territory" with the intention of making her angry was what was nagging her. She really hated that girl.

"I hate to say I told you so," Greg continued condescendingly, "but I must insist that I let you know the behavior you displayed with Dugrey was indecent and offensive. There were bound to be consequences such as this, and you shouldn't be surprised that he's off with another jezebel in lieu of you. Honestly, you got off easy. I suggest you take this with a grain of salt, learn from your wretched mistakes, and begin a new and more pious life."

"Sure, Greg. I'll do that. Thanks for letting me know about those two, I guess. I hope they're happy together."

"You'd think two Ivy League educated reporters would have more grace and discretion. I've heard Matthews even had a scholarship to Harvard."

"For fencing. That's not even a real sport."

He clucked his tongue. "Envy is one of the seven deadly sins, Rory. You must give up all desire to…"

Rory began to ignore his droning at this point and sort out her own thoughts. Tristan and Tina? Well, she didn't like it, but she wasn't overly upset about it, either. To each his own.

"Oops, Greg, I just realized I have to go," she cut in. "Please tell everyone I apologize for leaving like I did; the tour just wasn't right for me. I won't be back. You can take me off your list."

"That's all I wanted to confirm."

"Okay then. Goodbye."

She got a relatively pleasant dial tone in response.

* * *

The next phone conversation in the seemingly interminable line of phone conversations Rory had took place while she was in the bath tub.

She'd needed some stress relief. What better than a hot bath to make her forget the man she loved had run off to work after she'd asked him to marry her? But not before having a scathing fight, of course.

When she saw it was Logan, her stomach clenched and she felt every nerve in her body tinge. She was afraid to talk to him. She bit her lip and debated whether or not she should answer.

She'd decided to stick it out. Avoiding his calls really wouldn't help them get past this. The last time she had avoided his calls, he'd ended up diving face first into the ground.

She finally dried one of her hands off on a nearby wash cloth and took the call. She sat up as straight as she could to reduce the risk of dropping the phone in the tub and destroying it. Which meant much of her upper body was out of the hot water and exposed to the cold air of the guest bathroom (she would've felt awkward using Logan's master bathroom... so what if that tub was about a thousand times nicer than this one?).

She was ready to blurt out everything on her mind. She wanted to apologize, explain her twisted reasoning this morning, and admit that she thought he was correct in everything he'd said. But she chickened out.

"Hello?" she asked after a few seconds of silence.

"Hi, Rory." He'd been afraid she wouldn't answer at all. He figured she was already sitting in the airport waiting for a flight out; that's why he'd called her cell phone instead of the apartment.

His voice sent shivers through her; though that could have been the cool air on her skin. She loved his voice over the phone. After a few weeks of "text-sex" when Logan was in London, they'd moved on to real phone sex—not too much, of course. It had still made her feel awkward, but he'd helped her make progress and lose some of her self-consciousness. He knew how to get her to shed her restrictive inhibitions like that. The last time they'd spoken on the phone, she'd gotten so mad at him about Tristan that she'd been unable to appreciate the timbre and pitch of his deep, attractive voice.

"Hi."

There was a stretched beat of time where neither said a word. She cringed.

"Logan—"

"Listen—"

They spoke at the same time and both stopped short to let the other continue.

"Sorry. Go ahead," he offered.

"No, that's okay. You called me. What is it?"

"Well… I was just calling because I thought of something, and it's driving me crazy. I won't be able to concentrate until I know…"

Though his words would normally have made her heart flutter, his tone was flat and disconnected. Like it wasn't really him on the other side of the phone. She could tell he wasn't about to say something that would induce an immediate fight-ender.

"Rory, last night, in the heat of the moment, I never put on a condom..."

She felt her gut fall about a foot within her body. Great, he was just calling to cover his tracks and make sure there wasn't going to be a baby on the way. Like she wanted one with him.

Rory sighed to herself. She should be glad he was being practical. And of course she wanted a baby with him someday. Hopefully one with brown hair and brown eyes just to foil the expectations of her grandparents.

When Rory didn't respond, Logan felt himself getting a little nervous. They weren't ready for marriage; they definitely weren't ready for pregnancy. Even a pregnancy scare was more than he could handle right now.

"I just wanted to make sure you…you know."

"Wanted to make sure I was the responsible one?"

Oh, nuts. Her voice had come out much more mean-spiritedly than she'd wanted it to.

"Don't worry, Logan. I'm on the pill."

She heard him breathe a sigh of relief into the phone.

She crossed one arm across her chest, as if to simultaneously hide her nakedness and protect her heart.

"Okay. I'm sorry about that, Rory."

"Well, no worries."

"Are you…still at the apartment?"

"Yeah," she responded quietly.

"Alright." Although there was a hint of surprise in his tone, there certainly wasn't any deep chest-swelling emotion.

Dead air filled the phone for a few seconds. She had nothing left to say to him that she still particularly wanted to say after that little exchange.

"Well, goodbye," she said when she couldn't take the silence anymore.

"Bye."

Rory set the phone down and let herself sink below the surface of the water. The warm water on the back of her eyelids didn't bring the relaxation she'd been hoping for.

_Hmph_.

* * *

Rory sat on the window seat and stared down over the people walking below, feeling like a god watching her minions go about their everyday lives. How funny to think all those tiny little people had their own concerns completely separate from her own.

At least now she was wearing her own clothes—some her mom had sent from Stars Hollow. Even jeans and a t-shirt from home made her feel better. She felt clean from her bath. She'd washed away this morning as best she could and now she just had to start fresh.

And try to get "So Fresh, So Clean" out of her head. Damn Outkast with their catchy choruses and unrecitable raps.

The sound of a key in the door was enough for Rory to snap her head around. Her breath caught. Maybe Logan had come home early to patch things up.

She got to her feet and approached the door as it swung open to reveal the person entering.

"Finn?" Rory asked in disbelief. "I thought you went back to Connecticut."

"Doll, I haven't back to Connecticut in months, why start now?"

"You—you have a key?"

"Don't tell Logan. Now get over here and give me a hug!"

She smiled and complied. She had considered Finn one of her friends before the break-up, and being deprived of his insanity had taken a lot of the fun out of her life over the past months. As they broke apart from the hug, the tall Australian slung his arm over her shoulders and guided her to the couch where they sat side by side.

"So if you haven't been in Connecticut, tell me where you've been. I want to hear about your wild travels—you can leave out all the red heads. I'll assume there were plenty."

"Pish posh. I'm all about the divorcées now. And, much as I'd love to knock back some cold ones and wile the hours away regaling you with tales of my many adventures, I fear I only have a very brief amount of time to spend here before I head to the airport. I have a plane to Iceland calling my name. Honestly, love, I'm here strictly on business."

"Business?"

"My friends are my business. Don't let anyone with ideas about all that finance dribble tell you any differently."

"Oh. Well, Logan's at work."

"Who says I'm here to see Logan? He thinks I'm in Nepal, love. Lalitpur was so three days ago."

"So what do you want?"

"I'd like to knock some sense into you, darling. I know you and Logan have been fighting. He won't really disclose any details, but the fact that it's happening at all just isn't acceptable, no matter the validity of the reasoning behind your squabbles."

"Finn—"

"No interruptions, Rory. I have this all planned out. It's exactly what I told Logan over the phone. You two both want to be together; everyone knows that. So stop nitpicking at each other and just enjoy the ride. Don't make demands on each other right away. You have to be slack on the reigns and go back to how it was at the beginning. Not so heavy and dramatic. Keep it light. Don't move to fast." He paused. "Now you can talk."

"I just wanted us to be happy together. I proposed to him this morning; I take it you already knew that. I know now that I wasn't thinking straight, but my intentions were good. But he rejected me flat out. He said I didn't think over asking for his hand but he didn't think over saying no. He barely even considered it."

"Love, if you doubt that Logan wants to marry you, you're blind indeed. Though I guess you didn't see him while you were apart. I stopped in San Francisco once shortly after he'd moved here. And he was a different Logan. Mopey, depressed, frustrated with the world. And don't think I didn't see that pretty little hug you two had when you met up at the funeral—most of the people in attendance got an eyeful. He loves you. He wants to marry you, _eventually_."

She sighed. "I messed everything up. Not that I concede that I was totally wrong…"

"I'd never ask you to do so, pet. But I will ask you to go easy on our boy. He wants to be with you, but he was broken by you once. Give him some time to repair."

"He was the one who walked away from me. _I _was broken, too. But I know that now that I'm with Logan again, I'm repaired. I guess I thought Logan was the same way."

"No you didn't. You wouldn't know Logan, if you did. These things take longer than a week. Relationships aren't like traveling the world. One can go from San Francisco to Nepal to San Francisco to Iceland in a week, but the two of you can't go from obliterated to perfect in the same amount of time. Stop trying to force it, Ror. You can't roller skate in a buffalo herd."

"But I can be happy if I have a mind to?" she half scoffed.

"Exactly. Just ease up. Don't try and do what you can't do yet with Logan. Be happy with what you _can_ do. And work from that."

"Finn, you and Roger Miller should write self help books."

"That'll have to wait for later," he said, checking his watch. "I've got to go. Iceland waits for no man."

They got to their feet, and she hugged him goodbye at the door. Mid-embrace he leaned down and whispered into her ear.

"Your shirt is ugly. I'd rather let a pig eat my face than spend twenty minutes with you. Your taste in literature is laughable."

She looked up at him.

"Huh?"

He pushed her shoulder with one hand and balled up his fists in fighting stance.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting you mad at me."

He pushed her again.

"You smell bad. I want to put your head in a box just like Gwyn Paltrow in Se7en. Your hair looks silly."

Rory stared at him, bewildered.

"Oh, come on! Dry hump me already!"

With that, Rory opened the door, ushered him out, and closed the door in his face.

"Take care of Logan for me, love!" he called through the door.

She couldn't help but smile.

Rory turned and surveyed the apartment, feeling like she had a better sense of resolve after Finn's impromptu visit. Now she just had to find something with which to occupy herself until Logan got home. She picked up one of the many books her mother had sent and sat on the couch. She turned her body to face the door, to make sure she didn't miss him coming in.

It was 2:00 now. Logan had said he'd be home late—she guessed late meant 9:00 or 10:00. Good thing she had the ability to read happily for hours on end. This skill would definitely come in handy now.

After reading the same sentence four times, she set the book down and checked the clock again. Two minutes had passed. Still about seven or eight hours till Logan would arrive.

Well, at least she'd have lots of time to plan out what she was going to say.

* * *

**AN: As of now, I'm planning on posting three more chapters. The end is in sight! I have a couple of ideas for other stories; I just want to make sure they aren't as terribly trite as they have the potential to be. I'll probably post them after I've already finished writing, so it could be a few months, but the wait between updates will be short. My future stories _will_ be Rogans. Though probably not as long as **_**this**_** Rogan... I hope you enjoyed Chapter **_**20!**_


	21. Not Quite Miss Cleo

As Logan closed his apartment door behind him, he considered what an imposing image Rory would have made, patiently watching the entryway for his return. He was sure that coming home and seeing her sitting there so unexpectedly upfront and straightforward would have caught him off guard and she'd have been able to say whatever she wanted—whatever that was.

Yep, if she wasn't snoring with hair strewn across her face right now, he'd be in a pickle. As it was, he had to resist the smile that tugged at his lips at the sight of her. He was in a bad mood, and he didn't really have the desire to change that.

Neither of them had had much in the way of sleep last night. He was about to drop to the floor in exhaustion himself.

He wanted to creep by and dash into his room, thus avoiding waking her up and having any sort of confrontation whatsoever. He didn't have to admit to himself that he had the strongest urge to hide from her. Not if he didn't want to admit it, anyway.

Honestly, he just didn't want to sit down and 'work things out.' Not now when he was so tired he could feel his eyelids threatening to send him into glorious, blissful darkness right where he stood. Not when he was still harboring some anger towards her. Even if she hadn't meant what she'd said in the heat of the moment as they'd fought, her words had hit home. Though the lecture Finn had ended up giving him earlier today had made a whole lot of sense, he'd had hours to let her words stew within him and he just wasn't ready to make amends. He'd take Finn's advice and simplify everything…just not right this second.

Logan eyed her for a second, debating whether or not to wake her. Comfortable as his couch was, he figured she'd probably want a bed to sleep in. He cringed inwardly at the thought that she'd spend last night in his bed but probably wouldn't be doing so again for quite some time.

Logan set his briefcase on the kitchen counter. He loosened his tie. He poured himself a glass of water, downed it, washed his cup, and put it away. He puttered around the kitchen, wishing he had something to tidy or fix. Damn maids and well-functioning appliances. He sighed to himself. Stalling wouldn't make this less awkward. And the longer he waited to wake Rory, the more time would pass before his head hit his pillow.

He just had to make it short and sweet. Nudge her awake and hightail it to his room before he inadvertently conveyed how he was feeling. Worn-out and a pretty pissed off.

Logan stood behind the couch, looking down at her peaceful form. He lightly brushed the hair out of her face. Why the fuck was it so impossible for them to want the same thing at the same time? Why weren't they ever on the same page?

Maybe because he was…as she had put it…a fucked-up narcissist with a manipulative streak.

He looked toward his room with a bit of longing, but finally placed his arm gently on her shoulder. He squeezed it briefly and withdrew his hand, figuring neither of them really wanted too much contact.

"Hey, wake up." He saw her eyes flutter open. "It's late. You should go to bed."

Rory cleared her throat and sat up. Though Logan's words were gentle, there was a hardness in his eyes.

"Thanks," she mumbled. Rory directed her gaze to her lap; she didn't want to see that look on Logan's face. She'd sat for hours waiting for him. She _was_ going to address this morning in a graceful way; he'd sit down with her, and they'd work through this bump in the road.

Rory opened her mouth to let out the long line of words she'd perfected in her mind. Sleep hadn't jumbled them at all. In fact, she felt rested enough to deliver the lines with the conviction and sincerity she actually felt. But when she lifted her eyes to speak to him, he was already turning away to head toward his room. Helplessly, she watched the back of his blond head as he retreated down the hall. As he reached the end of the corridor, Logan turned back to look at her, then quickly looked away as if embarrassed.

Rory struggled to find her voice.

"Goodnight," she called quietly as his door closed.

**

* * *

**

It was Thursday evening, ten o'clock; a full three days had passed since their fight. He'd spent most of his time at work, but when he was at his apartment at the same time she was, they tiptoed around the elephant in the room.

They had regressed to mindless small talk, mostly concerning the weather. Logan even found himself checking the forecast every morning so he'd have something to contribute to conversation. There was plenty of eye-averting, and if either of them forced another smile he would lose his mind. Logan _ached_ for things to be back to normal. He _ached_ to have just been able to say yes. But it just wasn't right for them.

And, honestly, she deserved a proper proposal. Not today, not tomorrow. Someday he'd give it to her.

Logan glanced behind him and watched her as she sat at the kitchen table, speaking on the phone with her father. He heard her give plenty of vague reassurances that he doubted she herself believed. He turned his attention back to the television.

"Yes, Dad. I'm sure. So stop worrying. I'll talk to you later."

"I hope you're doing what's right for you. Bye, kiddo."

Rory hung up her cell and bit her lip, thinking of the various sort-of-lies she'd just told her father to soothe his concerns. Maybe she wasn't so sure of her situation with work and with Logan _right now_. But she would be soon. Probably.

Rory eyed the back of his head as he watched CNN from the couch. They'd been so distant since Monday. She'd never felt such a coldness between them. But it was strange in that both of them wanted to get over it immediately. She was sure of that. She'd spied him giving her a yearning look and he'd caught her in the same gaze a couple of times. She'd spent the last few nights in the guestroom. Unhappy and alone.

As she watched him watch TV, she was hit with a fresh wave of sorrow. Was this how it was going to be between them forever? Silent?

Rory needed comfort, and there was only one person she wanted it from. She longed for his sunny outlook, his confidence-inspiring touch, his warmth.

She slowly rose from her seat, leaving her phone on the table. Rory approached the couch and sat down to Logan's right, leaving a cushion between them. He looked over at her, surprised. She didn't make eye contact.

They watched the news coverage, not saying a word to each other. After about ten minutes, he saw Rory begin to scoot slowly towards him out of the corner of his eye. She aligned her side with his and leaned her head lightly on his shoulder. Her face was dismal.

There was a deep sadness between them. For what they just couldn't get right. He put his arm around her shoulders and saw her close her eyes forlornly. Heaviness hung in the air. There was a mutual understanding of the break in normal behavior in favor of expressing deep melancholy.

As they sat there together in silence, he felt as if a deep and painful hole resided in his chest.

He didn't know how much time had passed (it could've been fifteen minutes, it could've been three hours) before she pulled away. Her eyes were bright, as if she were holding back tears. She looked down.

"Goodnight," Rory whispered.

He hesitated. "Goodnight."

Rory got to her feet and went down the hall to her room. The door closed softly behind her.

He snapped the television (which he'd completely forgotten about) off and trudged off to his own room. He changed into boxers and a white t-shirt for bed. He hung his work clothes neatly in his closet. He brushed his teeth and washed his face. And all the while he couldn't get those doleful blue eyes out of his head. They pierced his conscience, his heart, and his soul. He'd caused that sadness, more or less. He hadn't ended it; that was for sure.

Logan stared at his bed, loathe to get in and make an attempt at sleep.

He had to see her again. He couldn't let those eyes be his last image of her tonight, for they would surely haunt his dreams.

Logan made his way down the hall, debating all the way whether or not he should return to his room and leave Rory alone. This inner dispute failed to allow him to think of what he would actually say to her when he got to her door.

He hesitated but decided winging it would probably work out just as well as having some sort of speech planned.

He knocked softly. After a few seconds he heard a muffled, "Come in."

He entered the room to find her sitting up in bed, the covers pulled up around her legs. She wore a blue Stars Hollow Fiction Festival t-shirt he recognized as something she'd often worn as pajamas.

Logan approached the far side of the bed and loomed over her; she bit her lip nervously, completely unaware of what his intentions were.

He wasn't quite sure of his intentions himself.

"May I?" he asked with a gesture toward the bed.

She nodded silently.

Logan sat down stiffly, not facing her. He stared at the floor.

"Are…are you still angry with me?" she asked after a long interim.

"No."

She could tell otherwise. Maybe it wasn't anger, but some mixture of resentment (for ruining what they had) and unease (for their inexplicable inability over the past few days to discuss their issues and make some progress).

They were silent again. Eventually, he turned around to face her. He'd come here to get a good look at her to clear the guilt her miserable eyes had instilled in him.

But the look on her countenance now only increased the stirring in his gut. She appeared apprehensive, uneasy. On top of the overwhelmingly obvious sorrow that was still there. He guessed she could see the residual emotions inspired by their fight written just as plainly on his face as he could see them on hers.

Logan just wanted the awkwardness between them to end. He wanted to feel connected to her again.

He leaned across the bed and positioned his face just a few inches in front of hers.

She was surprised at his actions. Logan's eyes…well, they didn't seem like Logan's eyes. He seemed off, like he was drunk or something. But he when brought his lips delicately to hers, she didn't taste a trace of alcohol. They kissed lightly, neither making an attempt to raise the level of passion, for there was still an undeniable remoteness between them.

And yet…

This sort of imitation kiss—imitation of what a kiss between them should have been—was better than the nothing they had before. It was contact, and it did have a degree of comfort to it. In only that they could assure each other that they were both dissatisfied and both wanted to improve their strained relationship.

Though maybe she was reading too much into it.

Or so she conjectured to herself as Logan's hand snaked back the covers and she ran one of her thighs along his.

**

* * *

**

He'd never had 'sad sex' before. That was his main thought as he laid there in the guest bed, almost-spooning her. Their backs were touching, anyway.

Their positions sort of summed it up. They wanted to be with each other but couldn't seem to help ending up backwards.

It had been very quiet; the only sound was their interspersed breathing, and even that seemed quiet, more tampered than usual. The act itself was fairly detached, not at all what he was used to experiencing with Rory. But her eyes, her woeful, blue eyes looked up at him, knife-like.

There was a great distance between them. They'd overcome the physical distance of a having a country between them and the emotional distance that had existed after that first rejected marriage proposal. Apparently a second such mistake couldn't be forgotten early; the first go-around had taught them nothing.

The particular distance between them tonight seemed endless, and it had left a chilling emptiness in most of his upper body. Maybe neither of them was the marriage type.

All he knew was that she couldn't turn herself over to him completely in bed, as she always had. And he was guilty of the same offense. They had both constructed inner barriers to protect themselves. From what they wanted.

He felt her breathing even out as she entered a deep state of slumber. Logan found his own resolve and turned around to defy the image he'd earlier compared to the position of their relationship. He put his arms around her and felt her body settle back into his.

At least in sleep they could be as they'd once been.

**

* * *

**

She woke early—around 4:30. And that was lucky, for there was no alarm set, and Logan would need to be up for work within the hour. He'd spent the night in bed with her rather than sneaking back to his own room. She wouldn't have been surprised if he'd done so. Because their time together hadn't exactly been hot and heavy.

She craned her neck and surveyed his face in the dark, grayish light of pre-dawn. He was asleep. For real this time.

His arms were draped around her, and his body was curled around hers. This wasn't how they'd been when she'd fallen asleep. She was sure of that. Not that she was complaining.

She took one of his large palms in her hand, rubbing it gently. She loved this hand. It, and its counterpart, had the power to excite so many feelings in her. She shivered involuntarily as she ran a dainty finger along his rough skin.

She began to take his fingers, one by one, in her hand, starting with his thumb. She inspected each one, marveling at their awesome abilities. Rory paused when she reached his ring finger. For it was his left ring finger. She stared at its base, wondering if a wedding band would ever reside there. If he would ever voluntarily tie himself to someone after what he'd gone through with her. She kissed the finger lightly, and then felt like a sap for doing so.

She brought her gaze down to his open palm, and traced lines the various lines running across the expanse of skin.

She stared harder, trying to cipher his future as palm readers could. Was she somewhere in there?

Was there a Rory freckle or crease?

Or scar?

Despite her strong determination, Rory's efforts were useless. His familiar hand was a mystery to her. She'd have to leave their possible mutual future up to fate.

Where was Miss Cleo when you needed her?

For the first time, she noticed his slow breath on the back of her neck. Rory smiled. Now, when he was asleep, she could feel close to him again. As close as ever. She could pretend it was two years ago and they were both simple college kids without too many responsibilities. What a carefree time it had been.

As she reminisced about their less complicated past, Logan, out of the early-rising-habit, woke up. He closed his palm around her fingers and squeezed gently.

"Morning," he said sleepily.

"Hey."

Damn her traitorous tone. Why did everything she said have to come out so cold-sounding, even to her? His face went blank at her stiff greeting, and Rory felt herself begin to put on her emotional armor as the wall between them was re-erected. There were also some stormy clouds, rough seas, and broken dreams somewhere in that little cliché nest.

**

* * *

**

Over breakfast they spoke of local new events; nothing was said about the weather. And that was progress, right? After eating, Logan excused himself to change for work. Upon his return to the main apartment area on his way out, Rory approached him.

"Listen…I really think we should talk. Would you like to get together for lunch today?"

He rubbed the back of his neck. "Rory, I agree. And I'd love to have lunch with you today, but I have meetings scheduled from about 9:00AM to 6:00PM straight. I don't know that I'll have time for lunch at all."

Her face fell a little bit. "Oh. Well that's okay. We've got plenty of time." A small smile graced her face. "You should really learn how to schedule your day better. A day without lunch is like a flower without smell."

His eyes crinkled at the edges.

"I'll keep that in mind."

**

* * *

**

Logan hung up his office phone and stifled a yawn. It was current 3:00PM. He'd taken the ten minutes between meetings to return some of the calls he'd received. Having Molly back was a godsend. Someone competent taking his messages ensured he actually got most of them. Logan rolled his shoulders, hoping to rid a little tension. This job was going to kill him. As it had killed Mitchum in the end.

And he still had hours of tedious meetings left today. What would Colin and Finn say if they saw him like this? What would Logan of yore say?

He had never wanted this life. Especially if it kept him from what he loved. Namely Rory. And lunch.

Oh, fuck it.

_Fuck work_.

The woman he loved was here for who knew how long. And they needed to spend time together at this critical point in their relationship, or, he feared, they would disintegrate.

He was going to do what his father had never been able to do. Make time for her. Set his priorities and stick to them. He could practically set his own hours if he hired more people. That way he could delegate a share of the important tasks Mitchum had seen fit only for the president. Sure, if he did so, he'd take in less income, but who needed income? He sure as hell didn't.

Logan grabbed his car keys (he had driven today—the BMW), and made his way determinedly out his office door. He could feel an endorphine rush begin to kick in; he felt really empowered.

"Cancel everything," he called over his shoulder to Molly as he left the antechamber (as he liked to call it).

"What?" he heard her call in disbelief. But he wasn't going to clear it up for her. He was going home for a late lunch with his Ace.

**

* * *

**

Logan burst into the apartment, scaring Rory, who'd been typing away at her laptop, senseless.

"Fuck work!" he exclaimed as he tossed his briefcase on the floor.

He strode over to where she sat in the coffee nook. He was radiating energy and she didn't know how to react to this.

"I've done it. I'm free! Rory, _Ace_, this is so great!"

"What are you talking about?"

"I blew off my last few meetings today! And it doesn't matter. Not even a little bit! Monday I'm going to start interviewing for some new positions—I'm going to start parceling out the duties I have now to make it a hell of a lot less work for me. Mitchum had to do everything himself because he didn't trust anyone else, but that's not how I am. I'm going to get a more flexible schedule—this could potentially be like a normal job! Only fifty…maybe fifty-five hours a week! That's normal enough, anyway."

His voice was loud and his excitement was contagious. Rory found herself feeling a sense of giddiness for him. For them.

"Fuck work!" he said again. "Say it with me!"

"I don't have any work to write off so expressively."

He grabbed her hands and pulled her up to stand with him.

"Doesn't matter."

"Fuck work."

"Oh, come on!"

She laughed. "Fuck work!" she cried out with more strength in her voice.

"Attaway!"

Rory smiled at his unbridled enthusiasm. He squeezed her hands, which he still held.

"Have you already had lunch?"

"Yep—some of those SpaghettiO's from the pantry."

"I ordered a couple of subs on the way here—you think you could pick at one of them while I eat the other?"

"I'll do my best," she said dryly.

He grinned and kissed her cheek. Rory laughed at his demeanor.

"What is _going on_?" This was a 180˚ shift from this morning. And the past few days.

"Did you not hear me earlier? About my whole new lease on life? This is the point from whence everything changes for the better!"

"All because you decided not to work so hard?" she asked with narrowed eyes.

"Exactly!"

At that point the doorbell rang, and Logan went to retrieve the sandwiches. They sat at the kitchen table, and Rory continued to wonder at the man's mood. He even ate with enthusiasm.

After they'd finished, he'd cleared the table and then taken his seat again. "So let's talk."

He'd sobered quite a bit—the conversation to come was a serious one. Its outcome could determine a lot about their future together.

Rory was ready for this. She'd had ages to meticulously plan her words.

"After everything that happened with us in the very early morning on Monday, I was bursting-at-the-seams happy. It was all so…magnificently like it used to be. And I wanted to capture that feeling. So I did what, at the time, I thought we both wanted. I assumed that the fact that you proposed to me once meant you'd be ready to forget about the changes in both of us and pick up right where we left off. But that was unrealistic—foolish, really. We still have unresolved issues; we'll probably have them for months. I can't swoop in and try and make things perfect in one week, no matter what my over-achieving side tells me. Because I'd had a taste of true intimacy with you, I tried to force you into commitment before you were ready—before I was ready. You were right in everything you said about me. So, first of all, I'm sorry about that. I'm sorry about everything I did that you said I did."

Secondly, I'm sorry for attacking you. I lost my mind for a time there. I had this stupid vision in my head of what should have happened and that went out the window. So I wigged and lashed out at you. I honestly didn't mean what I said. Maybe you were that person once upon a time, but you aren't a 'fucked-up narcissist with a manipulative streak' anymore. You have never been Mitchum. And, as evidenced by your new resolution about work, you obviously never will be. You care about people, Logan. We both know that."

Finally, I apologize for the days since the fight. I was ready to get all this off my chest Monday night. But I let you go to your room without talking about it. And Tuesday I had plenty of chances to apologize that I just didn't take. Same with Wednesday and Thursday. I had the opportunity to make things right between us, but I let my embarrassment and a little stubbornness get in the way. I still sort of thought you might apologize first. Which doesn't make the least bit of sense."

"Sure it does. You may have forgotten this, Ace, but I once proposed to you at an inopportune time. Your intentions were good. As I see it, we're tied now. Each of us has a botched proposal so now we can just call it all a wash and start from scratch. You didn't have to apologize for asking me to marry you; there's nothing to forgive there. You just have to understand the reasoning behind my answer."

"I do."

They shared at a smile as the irony of her word choice became evident.

"As for what you said to me, I know you didn't mean it. If anyone can lose herself in a heated argument, it's you. But your words did have some truth to them." She started to interject, but he raised his voice. "Don't argue; we're both well aware of the fact that I'm not always a great person. I think what you said is part of what drove me out of the office and back here today. If we want to work something out together, it's imperative that we both put in the right amount of effort and that each of us makes sacrifices. Also, we have to stop nitpicking at each other and just enjoy the ride."

Rory grinned. "So Finn really did give us the same spiel. Did he quote Roger Miller to you, too?"

Logan laughed. "You can't roller skate in a buffalo herd."

"I hope you found it as inspiring as I did."

"Definitely. So Finn called here, too?"

"No, he stopped by."

"But he's in Nepal."

"Nope, Iceland. He told me Nepal was 'so three days ago.' But he was here for a brief time Monday."

"Isn't San Francisco a little out of the way for a connecting flight?"

"I think he'd intended to stay here for awhile, get in touch with you. But then Iceland came up out of nowhere."

"Iceland tends to do that. Oh, and about the last few days…that's as much my fault as yours. We have a bad track record with communication. In the past, it's always been some crisis that's brought us together. Things that seemed horrible but were actually opportune. Know what I mean?"

She began to list off a few of the events that came to mind. "Paris's melt down and the paper almost not getting to the printer, me getting kicked out of my apartment, your LBD accident, you getting shipped off to London—"

"My father dying," he interjected. Rory nodded silently. "I don't want there to have to be some disaster for us to get back on track. We can't count on those unifying predicaments every time we get in a spat. I want to be able to _talk_ through our problems and get back together in a normal way."

"So let's talk some more."

**

* * *

**

They'd had one of the longest, most varied conversations Rory had ever had in her life (and she lived with Lorelai Gilmore). She'd felt more connected to Logan than she ever had to anyone else (and that included Lorelai Gilmore). They'd simply talked for hours, and then they'd gone out for a fun dinner at a hip new restaurant. They'd stayed out late and when they'd finally arrived home, she'd decided to go straight to bed. Logan had followed her to her door, and _somehow_ they'd ended up making out against the frame.

The energy he'd had earlier today was back in full force as he passionately assailed her lips. He backed her into the room towards her bed as her tongue tangled violently with his. Logan's hands gripped a little tighter on the curve of her ass. The silky material of her dress was driving him mad. Rory's hands ran up to ensnare themselves in his tussled hair. She felt the bed hit the back of her legs, and he easily picked her up and flung her onto the mattress.

They were both breathing hard as he roughly untucked his shirt and started in on the buttons.

He leaned in again to kiss her as he climbed onto the bed.

"Logan." He paused, and looked at her expectantly, surprising even himself that he still had the brainpower to heed to her words. "Logan, I think you should go back to your room." She said this with a wry smile. Being rejected while wearing a sheet toga had been embarrassing. She'd never stated that she didn't want a little revenge.

He looked at her in disbelief and held back the frustrated groan bubbling in his throat.

"Whatever you think is best," he said finally.

He stood and made his way to the door. When he reached it he looked back at her, longing in his eyes.

She waved goodbye mockingly, and the true evil of her sending him away registered. He fake-sneered at her.

"Goodnight, you diabolical mastermind."

She laughed good-naturedly and called out to him. "Hey, come back here—just for a sec, don't get any ideas."

He returned to stand before her as she sat on the edge of the bed. Rory pulled him down and kissed him deeply. "I love you."

Her eyes were how he'd always imagined them when they'd been apart. Filled with a mixture of mirth, love, and desire.

He smiled. "Back at ya, Ace."

Logan turned and went to his own room, whistling contentedly and occupying his mind with baseball…Eskimos…Paris Gellar…and dinosaurs.


	22. The O'Reilly Factor

Ch 22-

**AN: Do you remember what happened last chapter? Me neither. I'm sorry about the long interim…there really is no excuse. **

* * *

"You're insane!"

"Am not."

"Yes, Ace, you are. You get to choose any guy _in the world_ to take to bed if you had the chance, and you choose _him_?"

"I didn't freak out when you chose the extremely predictable Alyssa Milano."

"Yes, but at least Alyssa Milano has an _amazing_…"

Rory raised her eyebrows as Logan trailed off. He smirked and shook his head, choosing not to finish his sentence.

"Well, it's not like Bill O'Reilly's in _bad_ shape."

She saw him shudder and smiled wickedly, delighted her choice had riled him up so much. It wasn't her fault she was just plumb-attracted to the guy.

"Bill O'Reilly is an arrogant and abrasive asshole."

Logan didn't know how they'd gotten into this conversation. One minute they'd been having dinner (he'd been admiring the way her new red dress hugged her bust and other tantalizing curves) and the next they were discussing hypothetical bed partners. This one was one discussion he'd rather not have had because now all he could think of was that creepy old man getting handsy with his girlfriend.

"Have you ever met him in person? He has this presence. There's lots of animal magnetism there, just below the surface."

She took a bite of her fillet mignon and marveled at the rich blend of flavor in her mouth. Logan had picked an amazing place for dinner—it had ambiance out the wazoo. But that was appropriate for tonight. It had been exactly two months since her arrival at Mitchum's funeral that gray January day. Of course, neither of them had actually acknowledged this fact (no bother in jinxing it), but both knew it was a milestone—even a seemingly insignificant one.

Rory had moved her things into the master bedroom weeks ago, and their lives together had been going swimmingly—no (big) fights**, **no unbearably awkward moments, and the maids had only walked in on them together once or twice.

"No, I haven't met him. But I've seen his show before. The guy's a dick!"

"O'Reilly has a masters in Broadcast Journalism from Boston University _and_ in Public Administration from Harvard. Plus, at one point, he was a semi-professional baseball pitcher for the Brooklyn Monarchs. I bet you wish you could say the same."

So she was still able to memorize and retain the most pointless-seeming minutiae and spout it off to you like it was the most interesting stuff in the world.

"You're a Democrat," he stated in a triumphant tone. She had to concede that their extreme political polarity would drive them apart.

"Maria Shriver and Arnold Schwarzenegger make it work."

"You're comparing yourself and Bill O'Reilly to Maria and Arnold?"

"Anyway, Bill's a registered independent, just like you. There _is_ a significant difference in our opinions, but that would just make daily life more interesting and…_West Side Story_-esque"

"How long have you had these feelings for him?"

"I think there was always a sort of attraction that I was only subconsciously aware of, but after I met him on the junket."

"Isn't he married?"

"Yes, but he waited till he was 46 to settle down which tells me that he still may not have been ready for a serious commitment. Divorce is always a possibility. And I'll always be waiting for him."

"You're sick. How old _is_ he?"

"Fifty-nine."

"He could be your father. He's _older_ than your father. He could be your _grandfather_!"

"Grandpa's sixty-five—they wouldn't have even been in high school together. Logan, you have your reasons for choosing Alyssa Milano; I have mine for picking Bill O'Reilly. He's great—well-informed, well-versed, six-foot-four, Irish…"

Logan looked at her with amusement as she trailed off, a dreamy look in her eye.

"Should I be worried about this?

"Just never take me to _The O'Reilly Factor_'s studio. And I'll keep you away from Ms. Milano's haunts. Where would those be? White Castle? Roy's Tattoos? The laundromat?"

"Eat your dinner."

**

* * *

**"Morning, Ace."

"Mmph. Good morning," was her muffled reply from beneath the mass of covers at his side. She peeked her head out, cracked her eyes open, and gave him a small, sleepy smile.

Logan couldn't resist leaning over and planting a kiss on her lips. In doing so, his shin grazed one of her feet.

"Your feet are freezing!" He felt the hair of leg stand on end due to the brief contact.

"Oh, yeah?" Rory ran her admittedly cold feet up and down his legs and giggled as he let out a high pitched "Eep!"

Logan continued to dodge her frosty extremity as she laughed maniacally. Finally he pounced on her, pinning her legs down mid-shin so she could do no more damage. He ostentatiously left big, sloppy kisses all over her face as she squealed and squirmed beneath him.

Their eyes connected and the next kiss he planted slowly on her lips was no joke.

However, Rory couldn't keep back a final snort of laughter from coming through into the kiss. Logan pulled back and narrowed his eyes at her in mock-anger. A guilty look crossed her face as whispered an apology. He couldn't restrain his deep chuckle; she felt his chest reverberate with it and shivered involuntarily.

He watched as her face lost its mirth and took on an expression of deep need.

His arms were to her left and right, the muscles taut from holding himself up above her. She knew from experience that he could hold this position for much longer.

Rory ran her hands up his arms to his bare chest, leisurely tracing the lines of his physique with her delicate fingers. Her smooth legs trapped under his began to move up and down Logan's own legs, simultaneously stimulating him and encouraging him to respond. She easily removed her long limbs from his capture—he no longer cared enough about cold feet to continue restraining her.

Not that her feet were cold anymore; every nerve was on fire.

Logan lifted her (inexplicably flexible) legs to grip his waist. He growled deep in his throats and began placing feather-light kisses on her neck, trailing down her chest. He could see that her eyes were closed and that she was biting her lip—this was the image he now most associated with impending release. Rory in foreplay was a vision he often used on lonely nights away from her, and just looking at her now got him more excited, though he hadn't thought that possible.

Logan's breathy kisses and the rock-hard bulge now pressing against her upper thigh made her eyes become hazy and hot, her body catch fire, and her thoughts focus on one thing alone.

He ran his lips down her body, and she felt his tongue lave her belly button, dipping in and out with varying degrees of pressure. Her eyelids shot up and his eyes met hers; she immediately recognized the glint in his eye. Rory feebly tried to pull him back up, but he disappeared beneath the covers. She gasped for air as he roughly propped her hips up with his large hands.

Logan proceeded to use his fingers and tongue to tease her for a seemingly endless amount of time—perfect torture—until she finally reached her peak with a low moan.

He reappeared above her and kissed her long and hard. Her body continued to pulse steadily as she came down from her high. Rory breathed heavily as she reached down and cupped him, rubbing his erection lightly; she felt his exhale of warm breath against her face as he began to move against her.

Logan could feel himself steadily building towards orgasm and almost let himself go in her hand. He stopped himself with a shake of his head—he had more satisfying means of release just now. He pulled back a bit, and Rory got the message. She hooked her fingers on the waistband of his boxers and slowly slid them down, allowing her hands to brush against him as she did so, drawing a strained "Unh" from Logan.

He positioned himself at her entrance and took his time sliding in, enjoying the sensation of her wet, hot core gripping him tightly.

They began to move in tandem, their bodies blazing. Logan closed the distance between their heaving chests to press his lips against hers with unbridled passion.

Rory closed her eyes and met each thrust, bucking her hips up against his. The tension was escalating, and Logan's hands seemed to be everywhere she wished they were, prodding her to climax.

When he finally saw Rory shaking beneath him, Logan felt her clamp down around him and came hard with a final thrust.

When he caught his breath, he languidly pulled her unresisting body to lie on top of him. He ran a hand lazily up and down her back. This was some of the best sex he'd ever had. And he knew it was because of the bond between them. How funny that he could have been experiencing _this_ for years, if he'd only committed to someone. Though he doubted he'd be as connected to anyone else as he was to his Ace.

"Thanks for having cold feet," he said with a smirk at the dual meaning.

"I'm glad my bad circulation pleases you."

He gave a wry grin and kissed her cheek, pulling the covers up around them.

It was 10 o'clock on a Saturday morning, and he had no intention of going to work today. Rory had been pleasantly surprised at how well he'd kept to his word about his new 'fuck-work' mentality. Under Logan's (limited) guidance, HPG was doing as well as ever.

"I love you, you know."

She glanced up at him. Rory never got tired of hearing it from him.

"And I love you. Though you're no Bill O'Reilly."

She kissed his jaw and shifted over to lie at his side on the bed. He pulled her flush against him and whispered into her ear.

"Okay, his name is officially banned within an 80 foot radius of this bed."

**

* * *

**Rory straightened the strap of her dress and glanced over at Logan to judge her progress against his. He was putting on his jacket, and she happily ascertained that she would be ready around the same time he was. Of course that meant they'd be right on time for his associate's charity benefit bash thing. Oh boy.

After getting out of bed around noon, they'd spent most of the day lounging around in their sweats. At one point, Logan had gone for a run while she'd finished up her freelance piece for _The Chronicle_.It would be her last freelance piece. She'd been asked to join the staff and become and full-time writer for the paper. Not too shabby.

Then she'd sat at the window seat to read. Logan had returned, showered, tried to goad her into a game of pool (a terribly unsuccessful venture) and eventually brought his laptop into the main room. He'd taken a seat on the couch to check the scores of whatever sport went on in March (she certainly had no idea) and email Colin about Finn's new 'girlfriend,' a single mother of three. They'd periodically looked up from their tasks to bicker back and forth good-naturedly.

Rory sighed. And now all that was over. Now they were going to have to go _mingle_ and _chit-chat_.

Logan straightened his tie. "So how do I look?"

"You're never fully dressed without a smile!"

He gave her a wide, obviously fake, grin and she flashed a thumbs-up.

"You know, I'm used to giving up my Friday nights for tired social events, but _Saturday_ nights? This just isn't okay in my book." She set a hand on his shoulder. "I thought we'd be free of these things out here, the span of the country away from Connecticut."

He kissed her fingers. "Ace, you have to learn that society and all of its awful mores are everywhere. You'll never escape. And Frankie's a good guy."

"His girlfriend isn't! If I have to hear her bitch on about NAFTA one more time, I'll shoot myself."

Logan looked at her soberly. Sure she was complaining about going out to yet another black-tie event cheerfully, but he detected some truth behind it all.

"You should go back."

"Back?"

"To the tour. This is one of the least predictable runs for the Democratic nomination in history. You should be there to cover it."

She gaped at him, speechless. This was coming out of nowhere.

"Don't get me wrong, we can stay together. I'll be here, you'll be on the road…we can rediscover text sex."

Rory gathered her wits enough to respond. "_No_! Logan, when I left the tour, I knew what I was doing. I measured my options and knew that you were much higher on my priority list than any job would ever be. I don't want to be on a bus filled with reporters, I want to be with you."

"I can come visit you. I don't care where you are, I'll take the jet and see you all the time."

"But—but what if I go to Omaha? Everyone knows how much you hate Omaha. There's a street full of very angry people who were trying to sleep and a long line of extra-sad folk-singers who all know very well that you _hate_ Omaha."

"I would brave Omaha for you, Ace."

"Logan…honestly, I don't want to go back. I gleaned what I needed to glean. I have experience now, and I can definitively say that I've lived in that wide open world all by myself. Why choose to regress and go back to the tour when I can move forward with my writing—expand upon otherwise trite and restrictive topics—_and_ live in a place where I can go number two without getting mean looks from a busload of people. Writing is my passion. I can write anywhere—and not just about dry politics." She was running out of breath, but that didn't stop her from continuing. "Plus, long distance relationship isn't something I'm willing to do, not after being without you for so long. Why choose to take myself away from you when I've been the happiest I've ever been these past two months? I won't do it. And you can't make me."

She looked at him defiantly, her chin held high. Let him try and challenge that.

He simply smiled—happy because he could tell she was sincere. She didn't want to go back. And that definitely boded well for him.

**

* * *

**Exhausted, Rory set her purse and jacket on the arm of the couch and collapsed onto the piece of furniture. The charity event had run long—very long. And that damn Jennifer had talked her ear off about stupid NAFTA _again_, even though the idiot still only had a superficial knowledge of the damn thing.

Rory looked around for Logan, wondering where he'd disappeared to. She was sure he'd come in behind her…though she was so intent on diving onto the couch, she might have been mistaken.

"Logaaaaan," she called, opting to yell out rather than get up and actually look for him.

"Just a sec, Ace." Logan emerged from the library door, a thick binder in hand. Perplexed, she watched him walk the hallway towards the main room. Logan sat in a chair near the couch and she sat up upon seeing the business-like look on his face.

"What is it?"

He wordlessly handed the binder to her, and she gave him a look of confusion before leafing through it.

It was data. Number of employees, salaries, length ratio of section, amount advertisement space allotted…an extreme amount of information collected on a number of newspapers. All based in New York.

"As you can see, there are several options—including HPG's paper. I swear it wouldn't be nepotism to offer you the job; you deserve it. Each of those papers has expressed interest in you. I sent them copies of some of your latest work, and they love you, Rory. All of New York wants you on the payroll—including the _Times_."

She looked at him, her eyes wide—Rory still couldn't quite believe this. She continued to flip through the binder, eventually reaching what looked like a seven-way pro-con list, spanning three pages.

"N—New York?"

"HPG HQ needs me. And I need you."

"_New Yor_—Hey! You used my color system…and these are my dividers! Thief! I wondered why it looked so professional." Rory flipped another page and gasped. "Bar graphs! _You_ used bar graphs?"

He smiled, but couldn't quite give himself over to enjoying her reaction. Not until she gave him an answer.

"So? Will you move to New York with me? In April...?"

She shut the binder, not needing to peruse the information to answer this question—though she was sure she'd spend hours poring over the data later.

"New York is the news center of the world. It's closer to Mom and, well, everyone. It'll be where you are. It's kind of perfect." A large smile crossed her face; he quickly mirrored the action, his heart racing at her words. "Yeah. Yes. I will move to New York with you."

Rory surveyed the expansive apartment he'd essentially created for her—for them together. He had put so much effort into it.

"You won't miss it?"

His eyes remained on her.

"No."

Her eyes met his, and he noted the excitement in them. "Okay. New York it is!"

He stood, ready to sweep her into his arms in celebration.

She got to her feet herself and held up a hand to stop him.

"Hold that thought? I—uh—just have to make a call."

She retrieved her cell and dialed the all-too familiar number. After a few rings she heard a muffled voice answer.

"I hate you. It's 6:00 AM, and I hate you."

"Mom?" She grinned. "Guess what!"

**

* * *

****AN: Sorry if this chapter seemed rushed—it definitely was! I'm leaving in an hour for Florida, and I haven't started packing yet. Yikes! It would be great to come home to a whole lot of reviews! Especially on my penultimate chapter…that means second-to-last if you're anything like Finn. ****:)**


	23. New York, New York

**AN- Okay, this is the last chapter and your last chance to tell me what you think. Sad, huh? Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed my first FF!**

She gave a thankful smile to the man who'd paused to hold the door open for her. His reaction to this was a little overzealous, so she quickly averted her eyes and hurried out of the children's boutique and onto the sidewalk.

Rory glanced down at the shopping bag she now carried and felt another surge of smug satisfaction. Her gift was going to be the best. Not only would Paris approve, but her son or daughter might even manage to enjoy it. Somehow she'd come across MUZZY—the BBC program for children to learn foreign languages at young ages. She and Lane had seen the tacky commercials for MUZZY and mocked its crudely drawn cartoon character throughout the 90's. The fact that it was now on DVD delighted her to no end. She'd picked up a French version for the new Gellar (for there was no way Paris would permit Doyle's surname—McMaster—to be passed on before hers was) and Italian and German for Steve and Kwan. If only because the two of them speaking different languages would be the only way she could ever tell them apart.

Rory had also purchased a few of the MUZZY characters in stuffed animal form. Managing to sneak some toys in with her gift for Paris's kid was an accomplishment indeed.

Some people just shouldn't procreate together. Rory turned and began to tread toward her pre-determined meeting place. She steeled herself against the cold. Jamie was at least sane. And even Asher had had a few kids (and grandkids) of his own, they'd turned out alright—though she knew for a fact that one of them had gotten divorced.

But this kid's father would be Doyle. Yikes.

And, of course, Paris's belief that marriage was a capitalist prison instilled on society by the wealthy white stick-up-their-ass bureaucrats of world didn't help things.

Well, maybe she could be fun Aunt Rory—something like what her mother had been for Lane and what she'd promised to be for Steve and Kwan.

At the very least, she and the little Gellar could be bastard pals. Right along with Edmund from _King Lear_ and half the new babies of Hollywood.

Upon reaching the designated street corner, Rory looked back and forth, scanning the faces of those walking by and taking note of how few people actually made eye contact. Any true New Yorker would be scared out of his wits upon visiting Stars Hollow. She had a new appreciation for Jess's attitude when he arrived.

Actually living in New York had been a transition. It was difficult not to feel claustrophobic and, at first, she'd made the trek "home" to Stars Hollow almost every weekend. But gradually the tiny two-room apartment they'd taken residence in (for Rory had insisted on living like a true Big Apple resident for at least a little while) had become her home. Their home. Now, of course, they were moving on up to a deluxe penthouse in the sky. And she was sure they'd make it their home soon enough.

Rory watched the steady stream of people go by—obvious out-of-towners marveling at the various landmarks and attractions that made New York what it was, various hippie bohemians still around from the 70's, scary crackhead-types in tattered clothing, aspiring actress/models at about 80 pounds each, and the many suits. None of which were the blond man she was seeking. She checked her watch—he was due within the next few minutes.

A slight smile came to her face as she remembered a conversation she'd had with Logan when they'd first arrived here, two long years ago.

"You know what I realized?"

"Hunh…?" His face had been mashed up against his pillow. She'd nudged him awake and asked him her question early in the pre-dawn hours. For some reason, she'd been strangely alert and her mind had seemed to focus on one thing in particular. It was too good not to share with him immediately.

"We're in New York now."

He'd lifted his head, cleared his throat, and peered at her through the darkness of their new bedroom. "Your point being?"

"Don't you remember who else lives here?"

"There are about eight million other people living here, Ace. I don't think I've got a shot picking the right one."

"_Bill O'Reilly_," she'd said with a sly grin. He'd groaned loudly and turned away from her to go back to sleep.

"_Come and knock on our door…We've been waiting for you…Where the kisses are hers and his and his…Three's company, too…_"

She'd proceeded to sing the theme from _Three's Company _till he'd threatened to ban coffee from the apartment.

"You don't have that power."

"You willing to test me?"

Rory'd stopped singing, but every now and then she'd start humming the familiar tune and get a scowl out of him.

Their move to New York had been especially joyous for Colin and Finn. For awhile she rarely saw Logan without at least one of the other stooges. Of course now neither of the boys spent much time in the city.

Colin had fallen madly in love with a Mexican woman and set up in Guadalajara. He'd even opened a branch of his father's law firm there. Logan and Finn had laughed the decision off, comparing it to the time he'd brought the milkmaid home from Europe, but Rory suspected this may just be the real thing. She made a note to herself to pick a Spanish version of MUZZY to send to Mr. McCrae.

Finn, on the other hand, was continuing to scour the globe in search of single mothers. He was playing a stand-in father figure to hundreds of kids around the world and Rory was certain there'd be an entire generation of ethnically diverse Finn clones to deal with in about fifteen years. When not jetsetting off to a divorcée or widow somewhere, Finn was usually in Burbank, California where he'd based his new television production company. Somehow it was wildly successful—not that the man cared a wick if it did well or not.

Logan kept in contact with the boys through phone calls, emails, and the occasional random rendezvous for a party—whether it be in Chicago or Singapore. Logan was thriving—he was still the president of the Huntzberger Publishing Group, and working at the headquarters made it much easier for him to run the company. Though he was much more of a figurehead than his father had ever been. Rory had had a ball for a week or so in comparing him to the queen. It wasn't as if he didn't work his fair share (and then some). He still had his imperative duties. He still worked round the clock some weeks. He still made important decisions. He still had to travel for weeks at a time. But she could tell he wasn't turning himself over to the job. He didn't mind sharing the load with his various co-vice-presidents.

Instead of taking the job he'd offered her—he'd even implicated that she was over-qualified for the position—as a features reporter, Rory had gone to win her honor back. She'd marched into the _New York Times_, laid a portfolio of her best works yet on the desk of the editor-in-chief, and dared him to read them and not hire her. He'd explained that he didn't handle recruitment and directed her to the lady that did but not before reading a few of her articles and giving her a vague indication that he'd put in a good word.

She'd gotten the job. So they worked for rival papers—that didn't keep them from giving each other advice on how to phrase a sentence or which business move to make (Richard's economics lessons did not go completely to waste).

They both traveled often—sometimes she dropped everything to go with him, and sometimes he was the one to push back his entire schedule to accompany her to where she needed to be for a story. Somehow everything had been coming up roses here in New York, New York.

* * *

He spotted her standing there on the corner, scanning the crowd—presumably for him. He caught her eye from a few yards away and she gave him a cheerful smile and excited wave. He grinned; Rory was absolutely adorable. He was sure she'd protest to him using the 'a-word.' Especially since Bobbi had been in town a week ago and _had the nerve_ to use that same word and belittle their relationship _again_.

Her long, red winter coat kept her snug and warm, but her cheeks were still rosy from the early-February cold. Her white gloves and hat stood out from the dark of the surrounding buildings and the drab overcoats of the people walking the streets. Her eyes seemed bluer than they had been this morning, and her lips were pink as flower petals.

Logan approached and, unable and unwilling to contain himself, kissed her lips tenderly, pulling her into his warm embrace. She let the shopping bags and her purse slide up her arm and took a grip on the lapels of thick coat.

They broke the kiss but remained close, their breaths, visible in the cold, mingling. Logan brought his bare hands up to hold her white-gloved ones on his chest.

"We should be in movies," she said sardonically.

"Tell me about it," he responded with a smirk. Lifting the arm that held her gift for the baby shower (and the pink Birkin bag he'd bought for her years ago), Logan asked, "Find something good?"

"Of course I did—MUZZY!"

"That like a Furby or something?"

"Noooo," she said, drawing the word out. "It's a set of DVDs for children that teaches them to speak different languages. Don't you remember those funny commercials with that giant green thing that sort of looked like a product of the wonderfully stoned animators of _Yellow Submarine_?"

"Noooo," he mocked. Rory rolled her eyes. "Man I feel sorry for that kid. I thought I had it rough growing up, but having Paris _and_ Doyle as parents? Shit."

She laughed at his words and shook her head as he offered to take the MUZZY-laden bags off her hands, opting to carry them herself.

He stuffed his hands deep in his pockets, and she clutched his arm with her free hand. They set off in one direction rather aimlessly. Rory counted them lucky to get this time together; how they'd both been able to spare an hour in the middle of a Wednesday she had no idea.

"So you've eaten?"

"Yep."

"You sure you don't want to stop for a quick bite?" Logan prodded, knowing Rory never turned down food.

"Whether or not I want to is beside the point. We're here on a mission, buddy."

"To window shop? That sort of entails a lack of mission by definition."

"Window shop? Hardly. I swore off that evil hobby after a horrendous and depressing outing with my mother that ended up with Mrs. Emily Gilmore dropping thousands of dollars on things no one could ever need…or even want. Including an extremely defunct globe, funny hats, and some golden apples. We're here to window _buy_. We're specifically looking to see things in the lovely window displays set up by hard-working um, window display designers, that we want to buy in order to meet the many needs of our new, yet unfurnished, sky hospital."

He chuckled at her name for their penthouse. It was something new everyday. She thought it was too big for the two of them. The property was better suited for something huge, like a hospital, museum, train station, etc…

"How about that brown one with the double drawers?" He'd sidled them up in front of a display-bedroom and caused the group of Japanese tourists behind them to mutter angrily under their breaths.

"Too ostentatious."

"How can a bedside table be ostentatious?"

"It's all designy and gilded. Besides, we're going to a flea market for the bedside table. And all of the tables in the sky arena. It's a Gilmore tradition."

"I'm going to guess that's a second-generation tradition—one not including Richard and Emily."

"Okay, well then, it's just a 'Lorelai' tradition. Minus Lorelai the first. Okay, it's a Lorelai-who-at-one-point-in-time-lived-in-Stars-Hollow-tradition. When furnishing new property, all hard surfaces must be bought dirt cheap. You wouldn't want your table to show up your food or distract from meal-time conversation."

"You're right—that'd be absolutely horrifying. Well, I'm not going to bother arguing; I know a futile endeavor when I see it. We can go to the flea market, but _I_ get to pick the tables."

"Only if I get veto power." She pulled him along down the street and squeezed his arm affectionately.

"So you'd essentially be picking? And who says you get to be president of our relationship?"

"I do. And if you say otherwise, I'll just veto that, too."

She stopped them and furrowed her brow, trying to make a decision. Logan followed her gaze up to the large amount of white material hanging on the mannequin behind the window.

He nodded his head towards it. "You like this one?"

She sighed. "Maybe. I'll definitely file it away."

They turned and continued to walk.

"You're not so good at this window _buy_ thing."

"Okay, but the choosing of _that_ has to be a mission all on its own. With Mom. And Lane. And Honor. And maybe even my grandma and your mom. There has to be special training, and we have to come up with rules and uniforms, and I want to be referred to as Bridezilla at least a few times. We can't just tack that important process onto this mission—at the very least, it would completely defeat the purpose of _this_ mission by mission-overshadowing."

"Um. Okay. Just remember: 'Clothes make the man. Naked people—"

"'—have little or no influence on society.' Trying to coerce me into rushing my dress decision with Mark Twain isn't going to work, Logan. And if it's nudity you're concerned about, don't worry your pretty little head. I don't plan on being naked at all June 18th. And the whole week after that…I'm thinking clothes on 100 of the time. In fact, I can feel myself becoming a never-nude. Mission Window _Buy_ diverted; Mission Jean Cut-offs initiated!"

"Har-de-har." Braving the harsh wind currently gutting the crowded avenue, he slipped his right hand from his pocket and took her left one in it.

Nineteen days.

Nineteen days since he'd proposed and she'd said yes. He ran his fingers over her ring finger to feel the conservatively sized diamond poking into the fabric of her glove.

She'd been late—like she always was when she was hanging out with her mom. She assumed she was just going to the Black & White & Read Bookstore for a movie, but he would be waiting there for her. The place had been empty, and only her mother would be there to see her daughter (hopefully) get engaged.

He'd asked Lorelai for her permission (again) to ask for Rory's hand (again) a couple of weeks before, and, this time, she'd looked at him calmly and given a firm 'Go for it.'

He'd run his fingers over the velvet box in his pocket so many times he was starting to lose feeling in the digits. This time he wouldn't be taking no for answer. This time he was positive he wouldn't get a no.

And he hadn't.

"Ohhh, an antique bookcase—let's go in!" she interrupted his thoughts. "See, window buying _does_ work!" She eagerly pulled him along. "Pick up your feet, Huntzberger!"

He shook his head at the serendipity of it all. He almost hadn't gotten here. He'd once thought he'd lost her love forever. Mitchum had finally done him a solid—in dying he'd brought Rory back.

Logan had suggested a June wedding, and at first she'd protested.

"It's so muggy in June! And that's five months away. Why do you want to wait five months? You just want to enjoy your bachelorhood as long as possible?"

"Not at all. It's just that it's lovely in Cape Cod that time of year." He'd said this in his best Emily voice—he'd always been eerily good at impersonating her. Rory'd shuddered. "Really though, June splits our birthdays."

"Yours is coming up!" she had interjected excitedly. "Oh, and I really hope you were kidding about that Cape Cod thing—we're getting married at the Dragonfly. No buts about it."

"Fine with me. As long as your mom can accommodate the amount of booze we'll need to keep Finn in the area long enough for the ceremony and the reception."

"Please tell me you'll choose Colin as your best man."

"I'm thinking of setting up some sort of Gladiator-like contest so they can vie against each other for the honor. Oh, and another reason to have a June wedding—there are no holidays to distract from the importance of the day we get married…except Flag Day."

"And Fathers' Day," she'd added.

He'd tried to hold in his sudden grin, and a lopsided half-smile had graced his face as a result.

"Right. Well, that's fine with me. Remember, you'll need more time than you might think to plan this wedding. If only because you'll have Emily at every corner to impede your progress with mindless minutiae. And Shira could very well hold a coup. She's very skilled in the art of sabotage."

"Can't wait," she'd muttered.

So they'd tentatively chosen June 18th. It was strange to pick an arbitrary day to assign such a great deal of significance. For it would be a significant day indeed—

His happy thoughts were interrupted by her admonishing voice. "Hurry up old timer! And yes, that was a—slightly poor—reference to _Fox and the Hound_."

Their eyes met and he smiled fondly at her, a brief rush of excitement bubbling inside of him. He was looking at the woman he'd marry in a little more than four months. The woman he'd banter with for years to come. The woman who would bear his children. The woman with whom he'd grow old. The woman who would drive him nuts and inspire him to do things he'd never expect himself to do.

He wouldn't have accepted anyone else.

Logan put his arm around her, and they strolled into the antiques store.

Life after love lost had become a thing of the past. For love lost had become love rediscovered, refortified, reforged.


End file.
